Homecoming
by Light Rises
Summary: Chapter 6: A step back in time to see what Mr. Boggs has been up to in the meantime… ON HIATUS
1. Prolog

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HOMECOMING

By Light Rises

**Author's Note****:** At last!  I didn't know if I'd make it before Christmas, but here it is!^_^  Anywho, this is my first MI fic, so I ask you all to please be kind and let me know if I'm off on anything (or anyone, as might be the case~_^).  Constructive criticism is always welcome, but no flames, please.

Now I know this Prolog is a bit long, but there's a lot to set up here that'll prove important later on; so please bear with me, folks.  Also, one quick thing you need to know before reading: this part takes place on Tuesday, April 8, 2003 in the Monster World; so, in effect, this entire story occurs in the past.

On a final note, I'd like wish Joy a late Happy Birthday.  So you finally caught up with me, tee-hee.^_^  Just kidding.  Enjoy, ya'll!  And happy holidays!

**Disclaimer****:** All characters, names, places, etc. used in this work are copyrighted to Disney/PIXAR.  In other words, I own nothing, with the exception of these so far: Auscarlia, Howlifornia, Miss Rosemary Nash, the Chavezes, Mr. Davies, Shirley Klump, and Janis Lovey.  Hope that didn't give too much away…~_^

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_Fortune may have yet a better success in reserve for you, and they who lose today may win tomorrow._

~ Cervantes

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Prolog: Regarding the Winds of Change 

The light hadn't been forced to glean (through a skylight or anything to that effect), so it flooded every visible nook and cranny in the room as far as its pool on the floor extended.  It all came from a set of rectangular windows which took up an entire wall.  The view they offered was pleasant—at least that was how most would put it, since the viewer's opinion itself differed somewhat.  From that huge office, with dust and hair particles dancing in the dullish radiance of a cloudy day before his nose, Sulley gazed past the vast company parking lot to downtown itself.  In particular, his attention was drawn to the two distinctive domed towers of city hall, the gold leaf somehow managing to be dazzling in this kind of weather.  The monster's blue eyes suddenly lit up, and his expression finally matched the feelings attached to it: nostalgic wonder.

"Wow," he breathed, raising a hand as if to scratch his chin, letting it halt in midair.  He was openmouthed, almost smiling.  _Did I_ really _used to think like that?_

Looking up quickly, Sulley saw the clouds roiling and swirling about, the winds striking up their innards and ragged, scuttling edges.  _The winds of change…_that made sense to him now, with old feelings rising up in him fuzzily, as if half-forgotten.  Monstropolis City Hall was always his favorite building to look at—an especially pretty, imposing site for any little monster, and an admirable hunk of Old World architecture for the grownups.  But the weird part was how a mere building, stately and elegant as it was, had compelled him into something like _college_, of all things!  For the longest time, he'd had the urge to work alongside those important monsters who were, apparently, doing BIG, important stuff in there, and he could never make heads or tails of _why_.  Wasn't getting moldy bread on the table every day enough?

But, nowadays, even _that_ didn't feel right.

Sulley stared back at his reflection in the glass, uneasiness creeping in.  Yes; the winds of change _had_ done a number since then, since before—and after—Monsters, Inc. became a part of his life.  And that was as far as James P. Sullivan would go with that line of thinking.  All he could do now was chuckle at the thought of almost shooting for a degree in Political Science.  This felt good, comfortable, so he leaned back in his executive chair and placed his hands behind his head.

Unfortunately, the chair—pneumatically adjustable as well as cushy—didn't agree with this.  It dipped back and, not unlike the magician and the tablecloth, slipped from underneath its shaggy occupant.  Sulley hardly had time to yell in shock before his back hit the floor with a sharp _smack!_  After sputtering a partially stifled "Uff!", he turned his head a little, just in time to see the chair skidding to a stop, on its side, near the wall of windows.

"Smooth.  _Real_ smooth."  The words surfaced a chagrined mutter.

At that moment, the office's large rosewood doors reverberated with a single, lilting chime.  Sulley twisted his neck the other way as one swung open, and he spotted a familiar, green shape making its way in, its round back turned as it finished speaking with the secretary in the adjacent room.

"…I wouldn't worry about it, Rosey—if Sid has hard feelings about _that_, then let him talk with _me_ over lunch.  'Kay, ciao!"  With a quick, high wave and a fleeting smile, Mike let the door groan to a close behind him.  His eye was closed as he strolled up to the desk, humming.  "Hey there, big guy!  I—oh."  He dipped his head (er, body) underneath, finding Sulley lying on the floor, staring back wide-eyed and now doubly chagrined.

After a moment's regard, Mike settled down on his right forearm, partially "lounging" there along with his friend in the space under the desktop.  His single eyelid drooped as a wry smirk spread across his face.  "So, let's see…Mikey gets two guesses as to what freakish mishap caused _this_."

Sulley moaned.  Why did _he_, of all people, have to catch him like this?  "Aw, come on, Mike.  Nothing happened," he said, starting to hoist himself up.  "I was just—OW!"  He brought a furry hand to his head, eyeing the table's underside with a look that bespoke violent thoughts.

Mike wasn't looking.  He brought the curled fingers of his left hand to his eye, then extended the arm completely, studying his fingernails.  "You're having trouble with the office again," he stated in a knowing, almost singsong tone.

"_No_."  Sulley shook his head, sighing as he got up.  "No…not really, at least.  It's just getting adjusted to all this _stuff_."  

A portion of Mike's head popped into view, trying to look over the top of the desk.  Light suspicion tainted his words.  "If you're implying that you can't get used to life on Easy Street, then I'd say you _are_ in need of some therapy."

"Yeah, sure."  It was the closest Sulley had come to real sarcasm for years.  Being CEO of a major company constituted "Easy Street"?  Ha!  _That_ was rich!

"No kidding, pal."  Laying his arms on the desktop, Mike drew himself up to his tippy-toes to get a better look.  He switched between glancing at his friend and surveying the various quasi-expensive office items and trinkets spread out before him.  "It's just _soooo_ like you to have problems with change," he went on, with a derisive, annoyed edge to his voice.  "And it comes up _now_, of all times!"

Sulley, who was righting his executive chair, couldn't suppress a groan.  "_Mikey_…"

"Hey!  I tell it like it is," he countered, smiling.  His hands had begun to wander toward the desk items.  "Heck, I'm starting to think we'd be better off if _I_ was the CEO and _you_ were the _comédien virtuose_."  Mike removed a dark, marble-textured pen from its stand, scrutinizing its exterior between index finger and thumb before popping off the cap.  His eye suddenly went wide.  "Oooo—_fountain,_" he cooed, impressed.

Sulley settled back into his chair.  He knew Mike was only giving him a hard time.  So what could stop him from giving it back?  "You're probably right," he said, affording a small smile.

This stunned Mike long enough to let him snatch back the fountain pen.

He placed it back in its stand before continuing.  "And you wanna know what _I'm_ starting to think?"

Mike drew away a little, still somewhat unnerved.  "Um…if I know the Muffin Man?" he tried.

"_Nooo_…"  Sulley's voice soon descended into light chuckles.  "More like, what my Top Comedian's doing lying down on the job?"

"Oh."  He'd finally caught on, and the effect was almost immediate.  "Worry not, my bosom chum," Mike said in a highly genteel tone, as if it were rehearsed.  "I will tell all in good time."

Sulley raised a furry brow in concern.  For Mike, something like this usually translated to: "You're probably gonna _cream_ me for this!"  But what could he do, except wait until Mike was ready to cough up?  It couldn't be that bad, anyway—not after all they'd been through together.  Right?

"Well," Sulley began, "then I think Mr. I-Can-Handle-Change will appreciate my effort to fix up this place."

Mike cocked an eye ridge skeptically.  "'Fix up'?" 

"Yeah…I mean, I've never had Waternoose's eclectic taste, and like you said—times are changing."

"But your _office_ needs to reflect that?"  He couldn't help the disbelief that crept in.

"Hey, I'm stuck here most of the time, anyway," said Sulley, with a slight note of sadness.  "And it's mine.  Might as well make the big 'ol place comfy for two rednecks like us."

Mike smiled appreciatively, pulling up his cupped stool to Sulley's desk.  It had been brought in from their apartment, since out of the several plush chairs set aside for visitors it was by far the most comfortable for him.  "So then, buddy, what are we going for—'the sportsman's lodge'?"

Sulley shook his head.  "Nah.  I was thinking more like…"—he drummed his claws on the desk pensively—"'art deco'."

Mike's mouth hung open.  "_'Art deco'?_" he said, aghast.

"Yeah.  Celia showed me some magazine clips from the Human World—mosaics, statues, architecture; she told me it's been around for a while."  He looked down at the desk to pick up the newspaper, which had been pushed aside earlier while he worked.  "The stuff's actually pretty neat, Mikey," Sulley said, unfolding it.  "I have to show you later."

"No thanks," his friend scoffed, crossing his arms.  "And when did _she_ start taking an interest in humans, anyway?"

Sulley's eyes briefly peeked at Mike over the top of the newspaper.  "If you're thinking what I think you're thinking, don't," he replied firmly, almost nonchalantly.  "Chalk it all up to Boo, if you like, but I can assure you that Miss Celia Mae is up to nothing you need to lose sleep over."

"'Thinking, think, thinking'—phew, that's a mouthful…"  Mike stopped muttering, pulling his hand away from his chin.  He took a while in continuing.  "Does…that mean she's helping you out?"

"Well, if she offers help, I'd be happy to take her up on it."  He laid down the paper and indicated the office walls.  "The first thing I want out is this wallpaper.  Celia and I picked out a few samples, though I'm starting to think we're leaning towards just painting over it all."

Sulley stopped.  He saw that Mike was on the verge of some huge emotion, silently quaking as he was.  But he didn't have time to comment on this before the little monster let it seethe over, at first fumbling and then downright fuming.

"Well…well, then that's just fine and dandy!  You two go ahead and play office makeover while I stand outside THOSE DOORS"—he shot an arm toward said doors—"with a price tag the size of Auscarlia _on my head!_"

"Wha—?"  Sulley furrowed his brows, shook his head.  "What in Monstropolis are you talking about?"

Now Mike stopped, caught short.  Apparently, this wasn't part of his plan.  "Uh…"  Then he sighed, making a conspiratorial gesture.  "Okay, I'll level with you," he said, voice lowered.  "You remember when I took vacation time to visit Mom last month, right?"

"Of course.  I gave you a week's worth of that."

"Yeah, well, here's the thing: I haven't seen her since the company play or called her up—she nagged me for _hours_ about that—and you know how it's like with that.  I kinda had a lot to talk about, and went on and on, and told her some good things and a couple badthings—"

Sulley started.  "Whoa, whoa.  What do you mean by 'a couple _bad_ things'?"

Mike shot him a ridiculous, pathetic smile.  "Now, you see, _that's_ the funny part, heh heh…"  Clearing his throat, he composed himself for the next part.  "What I mean by that is—and I swear right now, Sulley, on my honor, that I had _no_ clue what I was doing at the time—I kinda started telling her the story of how we kicked Randall's tail and booted him out of the Monster World…"

"_WHAT?_"  Sulley stood up, prompting Mike to grasp for a tuft of fur on his chin to pull his head back down.

"Shhh, shhh, I know, I know!" he muttered, glancing behind to make sure no one had heard and gotten curious.  "It was a stupid, stupid flub and we're lucky it didn't happen in front of anyone else."

A little shamefaced, Sulley averted his eyes.  He'd let his emotions get the best of him—which, as he knew Mike would confirm, was a frequent problem.  But he had no idea one subject could provoke such a strong reaction, and for reasons he was sure Mike could never guess at on his own. 

After a moment, he looked back at his friend.  "Okay," he managed.  "So then what's the damage report?"

"Not as bad as it could've been, believe you me.  Mom weren't too happy about what we did and I had to bargain myself out of homemade brownies for a year to keep her from telling the CDA or anyone like that.  So I was fine, _we_ were fine; everything was _cool_."  His tone had switched to mellow mode, and he made a sweeping gesture with his arms to indicate the previous "coolness" of the situation.  "Well, Celia came up to me a few minutes ago and _threw a fit_.  Mom'd called her last night and told her what I'd said.  Now she says she's leaving to stay with _her_ mother—indefinitely!"

Sulley worked his lower jaw, hesitating to ask for fear of the answer.  "Is she going to tell anyone?"

"No."  He said it softly, the word fraught with wondrous disbelief.  "I dunno why, but she said she wouldn't be a party to this either way.  And I don't think Mom told her you were involved.  So we're in the clear, I guess."

"Yeah…"  Sulley's mind was elsewhere, so that his voice had a similar dreamy quality to it.  The reverie broke with a sudden thought.  "Wait a minute.  If we're fine, then why did you act like the sky was falling just a minute ago?"

Mike started wringing his hands.  "Well, you know how Schmootsie-Poo's like when she's mad at me, and she isn't gonna be leaving till Friday night, so…"

_Sulley the Bodyguard covers Little Guy Wazowski's hide once again._  It was an old story.  But even if it was likely, it didn't quite fit here, not in this case at least.  And he couldn't shake the feeling that behind Mike's nervous laughter was something else—as if there was something he wanted to tell Sulley, _very _badly, but couldn't for one reason or another.  Would he dare to think Mike was in the same boat, starting to think the same thing after all this time?

_No_.  The thought was decisive, a bit rueful.  _When it comes to Randall Boggs, he'd never—_

The intercom on Sulley's desk fizzled to life.  "Mr. Sullivan?" a female voice inquired.

Sulley reached over to press the intercom button, both relieved and inwardly shaken.  "Yes, Rosemary?"

"There's a bit of a situation down at Laughfloor F," his secretary reported.  "Several employees have observed Mr. Ward in particularly, uh, _severe_ distress."

He glanced at Mike, who had suddenly looked up in interest.  The green monster mouthed the name "Claws" with a suggestion of quizzicality, to which Sulley could only shrug; he was just as puzzled. 

"You wouldn't be talking about _Pete_ Ward," Sulley ventured, "would you?"

"That's the one, sir.  And everyone down there refuses to work till something's done about it."

"Ah, great."  As he reached across to reply again, Mike leapt on the desk next to his head and nudged him aside, sending several of the trinkets onto the floor as his feet kicked them away.  He pressed the button in Sulley's stead.  "Sorry, Rosey, but you can tell them that Mr. Sullivan has other matters to attend to at the moment."

"_Mikey!_  What're you _doing_?"  Sulley's expression reflected the plaintive, hushed cry, his teeth gritted and his face screwed up as he tried to get around Mike to the machine.

"Yeah, we've got some maaaajor stuff to discuss here.  You know: tip-top, hush-hush, that type of thing—"

"Get OFF!"

Sulley shoved him with enough force to launch him off with the rest of the desk items.  The falling objects cascaded in _plinks_, _tinks_, and a dull _clump_ when Mike's body struck the floor.

Slowing his breathing and drawing the intercom to himself, Sulley pressed the button.  "Tell them I'm on my way down, Rosemary."

"Yes, Mr. Sullivan."  She clicked off with finality.

Sulley straightened, looking over the desk to where Mike had landed.  The green monster looked up at his friend with an injured, caustic air, rubbing his rump in utmost indignation.

He sighed.  "I'm sorry about that, Mikey, but what was _that_ all about, huh?" he queried, still a little breathless.  "What the heck's gotten into you?"

Mike didn't answer.  He simply looked to the floor and sucked in his bottom lip, sullen.

With another audible sigh, Sulley started off toward the other end of the office, not bothering to glance at Mike as he passed by.  When he reached the doors, his hand griping one large, elaborate handle, he turned back for a look.  A feeling akin to compunction rose up in him, so that his expression softened somewhat.  "Look, we'll just talk about this after quitting time, okay?  I've got some paperwork to finish up before leaving."  Sulley tried a smile, then finished entreatingly, "Promise I'll buy you a latte."

Silence.

"Fine."  He pulled the door open and slid through, letting it close behind him just as his visitor had done a few minutes before.  _He can't go back to work, anyway_, Sulley thought sourly.  _Not if his whole floor's out of commission over an assistant…_

He halted.  He wasn't able to notice the odd, vaguely concerned look Rosemary was giving him from behind her desk.

Sulley blinked back abstract sorrow.  _What used to be_ _my_ _floor, too…_

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Two elevators and several pesky waste management employees later, Sulley arrived on Laughfloor F's level.  Elsewhere and as far as he could tell while striding down the hall, things were quiet, serene even; there was still ten minutes left in the morning laugh session.  It wasn't until he was near Laughfloor F's entryway that he spotted the anomaly—a healthy throng of monsters hovering in a tight circle around the object of interest.  There were very few whom he didn't recognize, and the two canister-laden carts abandoned a little ways off suggested that even Smitty and Needleman were somewhere inside, elbowing their way through in hopes of seeing what the commotion was all about.  All were murmuring amongst themselves as Sulley drew up to them; he made a motion to call attention to himself, but Thaddeus Bile noticed him first.  He waved, as if to an old pal, and then began pushing his way towards the edge of the mob.

"Oh, Mr. Sullivan, you can't tell how glad I am to see you!" Bile panted gratefully, breaking through the rest of the crowd.  He gripped Sulley's arm and guided him, tugging the CEO along like an excited child wanting to show a grownup something important.  "It's pretty bad.  I mean, I was minding my own business, sir, and he was sleeping at the desk—like a baby, I swear!—and all of a sudden, you know what he does?  He _screams_ and we run over—you know, we had to see what was wrong—and I asked him, 'What's the matter, Claws?' but he doesn't say anything—he kinda fell off the chair then and, I swear, he went into a _fetal position_.  That's a bad sign, a _real_ bad sign."  He paused for breath, pushing aside the last of the monsters congregated around the curiosity.  "He's probably havin' a seizure or something," he finished, his tone thoroughly anxious.

Sulley found himself a few yards from Claws, who was seated at a bench near the wall, leaning forward with his face hidden beneath his machete-like claws (extended, which was unusual) and trembling while letting out strangled, wretched whimpers.  For an instant, Sulley wasn't sure whether to feel sorry for him or be disgusted at the display.  Claws had been part of the small phenomenon in which a number of Scare Teams flip-flopped in terms of position upon the switch to laugh power: hence, scare assistants became Comedians, and Scarers, laugh assistants.  It was sad enough the former bully and self-proclaimed "tough guy" lost his edge after nearly being touched by a mere (though punk) six-year-old girl over a year ago.  The poor guy had welcomed the change in the factory, and was quite merry although inexorably reduced to paperwork.  But now this…this was downright _pathetic_.

Cautiously, Sulley came up to him.  "Hey, Claws."

The blue monster peeked between two of his digits with circumspection.

"It's okay.  It's just me," Sulley assured him.

Claws lifted his head some.  "Oh.  Hi, boss."

Sulley sighed.  "Pardon me for being blunt, but what the heck's going on with you?  Are you sick?"

"Oh, I'm sick all right," Claws said with a grim air.  "Sick with _fear!_"

_Oh, boy.  _Sulley resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he squatted down to get at eyelevel with him.  "What's bothering you?" he asked evenly.

Claws laid his arms on his knees with a sigh of his own.  "Well, you see, I saw that Sam was doing a real good job in there with the kids, so I said to myself, 'Get some rest, Claws.  'Member, you gotta do the paperwork later!'  So I fell asleep—I was up late last night, Shirley was chewin' my head off at the dispatch office—and I started having this weird dream.  I was down in the Refinery, and, well, it was kinda silly 'cause I have no _business_ being there and I had no idea how I'd gotten there.  Then I heard a grinding—GRRRRR!, like a dentist's drill—and I turned around asking, 'Who's there?' but I heard this real _evil_ laugh.  I kept turning around 'til I was dizzy, and then…I saw _him_…"  He spoke the last part hoarsely.

"'Him' _who?_" Sulley insisted, shaking Claws' shoulders.  "Who did you see?"

"I saw…"—Claws lowered his voice, shifting his eyes left and right—"I saw _Randall Boggs_."

Sulley looked over his shoulder, eyeing the others with slight bewilderment.  They simply shrugged and shook their heads in reply. 

He cracked an awkward smile at Claws.  "Now, come on, Claws.  That's kinda silly, don't you think?"

"Yeah," said Jerry, stepping into the inner circle.  "I mean, it's not like he had a beef with you or anything."

"But you don't understand!" he wailed.  "It was unexpected, oddball…like when he pointed that Scream Exactor thingy at Mike.  Only, he was doing it to _me!_"

"Actually," came Fungus' excited stutter, "it was a Scream _Extractor_, _not_ 'Exactor', and—"

Sulley shot him a curt, admonishing look, at which Fungus immediately shrunk away, muttering, "Never mind."  It was enough watching for trouble from him; now it looked like _Put That Thing Back Where It Came From Or So Help Me!_ was leaving a knotty legacy of its own.  Sulley was never totally won over by the idea of "fancifully dramatizing" the events of those fateful two days, especially if it only served to boost Mike's ego.  And he knew Mike was walking a fine line by introducing so much truth into his little farce.  Of course, the part about Randall's ultimate fate had been changed—or, rather, "conveniently" cut out.  But it all boiled down to the fact that right now, he'd have to do one of the things he hated most—lie—and keep a straight face.  Then again, it wasn't as if he weren't practiced in doing so.  At least not by now.

"Claws," Sulley said, as if speaking to a child, though not in the least unkindly, "that was a scene in the company play.  It was all _fiction_—make-believe."

"But _Randall_—"

"—And your Randall was Needleman wearing a latex glove on his head."

Claws followed Sulley's gaze toward Needleman, who stood (naturally) next to Smitty, both in plain view.  Needleman waved, and Claws shrieked, hiding his face again, sniffling noisily.

George Sanderson rubbed his chin in a meditative air.  "You know, I've read about this type of thing before.  This looks like a case of PTSS."

"—That's _posttraumatic stress syndrome_," put in Bile, elbowing the CEO gently.

"I _know_ that," said Sulley, rather indignant.  _Why do people always assume I'm some kind of dim-witted oaf?_

At length, Claws lifted his head from his hands again.  "I know—I know it never happened," he admitted, faintly shivering.  "But think about it; he wasn't exactly a _nice_ guy to start out with.  I mean, what if he comes back and finds out what we've done?  He'd be pretty ticked off, far as I can tell.  But then he might be—"  He suddenly gasped, his eyes wide and bright with horror.  "Oh, no!" he cried, his hands at his temples.  "I'm being haunted by Randall's _ghost!_ "

"Oh, cruel fate!" chimed in Needleman, a hand against his forehead.  No one could quite tell if he was being sarcastic or not.

Sulley shook his head.  He was about to tell Claws that he was being silly, that there were no such things as ghosts, but he was struck by a thought and remained silent.  It was the buzz that had been bugging him since Mike broke the news about his Mom, and only now did he let the thought fully surface into awareness: What _had_ happened to Randall?  Sure, he had some ideas, but they weren't exactly…inclined to being brought up often.  He knew where Randall ended up—he'd checked up on the profile of the door he and Mike had destroyed after things at the factory cooled down some.   The place, deep in the bayou-dappled portion of Louisiana, was known to be a total creep-out zone for even the best Scarers.  Worse yet, and as was starting to dawn on Sulley, the Bayou was particularly notorious for its danger against _all_ monsters—even one as deviously clever and resourceful as Randall Boggs.  Claws was right about one thing: if Randall ever managed to return to the Monster World, he would most certainly be "ticked off".  And the alternate possibility, that he might already be…

"…They can't do that, you moron!  Why do you think they call them the 'waking dead'?"

The shrill voice was Betty's.

Bile stared at the floor sheepishly.  "But I always thought ghosts could tap into your brain while you sleep.  You know, through your ears."

"Hey, then no problems for me!" Waxford shouted.  "I've _got_ no ears!"

"But isn't it the '_living_ dead"?" George mused.

Betty came up to him.  "Look, fur ball, I know what I'm talking about, and when I say they're the '_waking_ dead'—"

"Hey, hey!  Cool it!  Everyone!"

The arguing stopped at Sulley's order.  He gave all standing an equal share of his stern look, at which quite a few visibly cringed, looking ashamed.  Then, in a friendlier manner, he approached Claws.  He clapped the monster on the back.

"You know what, Claws," he said, "I think it'll do you some good to take the rest of the day off."

Claws looked up.  "Really?"

"Sure."  Sulley helped him to his feet.  "It's obvious you're having one of those days, and it behooves me to give you some time to get the jitters out of your system.  Besides, you get to spend more time with Lydia and the kids, and family always helps with that kind of stuff.  Believe me—I know it from experience."

Claws allowed a smile, his face brightening.  "You know, I think you're right," he said.  He puffed out his chest a little, adding proudly, "I'm gonna go help my wife out with the chores and play with my kids."

"And there you go!" exclaimed Sulley, gesturing grandly.  "Now go on and get out of here.  Don't forget to let Celia know on your way out."

"Yes, sir!" said Claws.  He saluted before jogging off.

As he watched after him, Sulley felt someone tug at the fur along the upper part of his left leg.  He looked down to see Sam, who cleared his throat upon being noticed.

"Uh, sir," he asked in a timid but slightly annoyed voice, "don't take this the wrong way, but who's supposed to cover for him?  We've still got an afternoon session to do, and now I've got no laugh assistant to, well, _assist_ me."

Sulley looked around briefly, only seeing more shrugging shoulders and downcast eyes.  Then his gaze rested on a thin, yellow monster.  "Needleman?"

Needleman rushed out, panting a little as he stepped before Sulley.  "Yes, Mr. Sullivan, sir?"

"I want you to cover for Claws today."  He looked around at the others.  "I'm sure a fellow laugh assistant will help you out with the paperwork."

Needleman's jaw dropped open.  "_Are you serious?_" he wheezed.

"I certainly am.  And I'm confident you'll do fine out there."

Sulley had barely finished when Needleman grabbed his right hand with both of his own, shaking it vigorously.  "Oh, thank you, Mr. Sullivan!  Thank you-thank you-_thank you!_  I promise—cross my heart and hope to grovel—I promise you won't regret it!"

"I'm sure I won't," gasped Sulley, for now Needleman had a fast grip around his chest as he hugged him.  _Geez, he's _strong_ for a slim guy_.

The monster finally released him as Smitty approached them, brushing aside the dreadlock-bangs from his eyes.  "Ah, man, I totally _envy you!_" he squealed.

Jerry began to wave his arms.  "Okay, you guys, show's over!  Move along—morning session's almost over, so you all better get out of the hallway.  Come on, move it!"

Reluctantly, the crowd dispersed, each monster going his or her own way, though now most were heading for the cafeteria.

Sulley came over to Jerry.  "Thanks, Jerry."

"No prob', Sulley," he answered.  "I figured someone had to save you from your fan club."

Sulley chuckled dully.  "Yeah.  And it keeps getting bigger every day," he said, without enthusiasm.

The two briefly turned their attentions to the threesome of Smitty, Needleman, and Sam.  The nerds were jabbering excitedly while Sam trailed behind, as if he would rather have nothing to do with them.

"And don't you worry about Needleman," Jerry added, jabbing a thumb toward said monster.  "I'll tell him about the paperwork.  I've been around the floors long enough to pick up on it."

"Now, come on, it's not necessary—"

"Oh, but I _insist_," he replied, giving the CEO something of an implicit, knowing glance before turning around to head for the cafeteria himself.  Sulley understood what this meant, and simply waved back as Jerry did so in bidding goodbye.

The bell sounded, and workers began to funnel out from the various Laughfloors around him.  He watched them chat and brush past him in silence.  He felt numb, a little dazed; he couldn't put his claw on it, but something deep-set and serious was disquieting his innards now that all the excitement over Claws had worn off.  The last thing he felt like doing was eating, much less walking back to the office.  Nonetheless, he was beginning to have the feeling that if he didn't move in the next few seconds, he'd be stuck there in the hallway next to Laughfloor F until quitting time, at which time he would have no choice _but_ to move out of obligation.  _What gives today?_ he asked himself, though it felt as if he were inquiring into an echoing void that simply recoiled the problem back into his face.

He made a resolution aloud.  "I've gotta get some time alone."

He strode down the hall, his determination so set that he ignored the strange looks those monsters who had overheard his comment shot at him as he walked away.  The lobby soon loomed before Sulley—bright, airy, and echoing with the noises folks were making as they talked and moved about.  He failed to hesitate as he often did upon entering here; the fact that he had the run of Monsters, Inc. still hadn't quite sunken in, and seeing the lobby usually inspired that feeling of utter disbelief and quiet awe.  Instead, he pushed onward to the receptionist's desk, where Celia was, as always, taking and redirecting calls.  Just as Roz had once been a fixture in the dispatch office, so Celia seemed very much in her niche here.  To _not_ see her there at any time during business hours didn't rub anyone the right way; the one time she'd called in sick had been terribly odd, even a bit unnerving, for most of the monsters working that day.  Even Randall had seemed somewhat out of his "groove" for it…

Celia looked up as Sulley approached.  "Please hold.  I'll be just a minute," she spoke into her headset before pressing a button.  She flashed a friendly smile at him.  "Hi, Sulley-Wulley," she greeted.

"Hey, Celia."  Absently, he began to rub the back of his neck.  "Listen, I'm gonna go out for lunch today—probably downtown.  I just wanted to let you know so you can tell whoever asks for me to come another time or call back later.  I've got my cell in case of an emergency."

"Okay," she replied.  She had begun to turn back to her work when Sulley's words fully registered.  "W-wait.  You're going _where?_"

"Out.  Though downtown sounds pretty good, now that I think about it."  Sulley pondered on it for a moment, nodding to himself.  "Yeah…yeah, that's it.  I'll go downtown."

Celia blinked in disbelief.  "But…"—she bent over her desk, her eye searching the ground below and the rest of the lobby—"but, Sulley, downtown's a long ways from here—walking, that is—and I presume you're not going in _his_ car…"

Sulley noted Celia's use of the word "his" with amusement, and then a pang of guilt.  It left no doubt she was really miffed with Mike, and that she now looked at himself with genuine concern didn't feel right.  _After all_, a little voice in his head intoned, _Mikey only _held_ the door open.  You—_

"You presume right," he said quickly.  "But I don't see why you find it so strange, Celia: I walked to work tons of times during the energy crisis, remember?"

"I guess so."  She began stroking one of her snakes, which was visibly shivering and had an uneasy look about it.  Then Celia suddenly brightened, and the snake, along with its drooping sisters, perked up.  "Hey," she said, "I can tell you're not feeling well, and there's no use in trying to hide it from me."  She leaned forward, lowering her voice to a whisper.  "I'm thinking maybe you're in need of a visit with You-Know-Who."

Sulley, who had bent down to hear what she said, straightened suddenly.  The look he gave her started off as one of surprise, only, after a moment's reflection, to become deeply appreciative.  Celia had found out early on about Boo's reconstructed door.  In fact, she had come across Mike's plans during one of his unwitting moments, and had been sworn to secrecy on pain of death.  More pain, however, ended up directed to _him_ rather than her, though the surprise was successful.  Suffice it to say that Mike was lucky to have a girlfriend who remembered to bring a first aid kit every time he sorted through the door's many, splintered shards.

Sulley thought on the idea for several moments before shaking his head.  "Nah.  The truth is, I don't think it'll do me any good.  Sure, I'll probably feel better, and it'll keep my mind off things for a while.  But, well…I think _that's_ the problem."  He rubbed his right arm and looked distractedly off to the side, towards the floor.  "There're some things I need to sort out, in here," he continued, pointing at his head.  "That's why I gotta get out there walking—thinking."

The way he looked occurred to Sulley, and he quickly dropped his arms to his side.  For the second time today, his gestures had been more telling of his feelings than he felt comfortable with, and he was now only left to wonder—quite sheepishly—what else Celia might have discerned.

But she only gave him a small smile.  "All right, then, sir," she said, turning to her switchboard.  "I'll let the Chavezes and Mr. Davies know you're out."

Sulley almost let out a bewildered "Huh?" before realizing what she was talking about, and proceeded to mentally slap his forehead.  _Man, I forgot—they're visiting the factory today!_  _You dolt._  The Chavezes and Mr. Davies were members of the Board of Directors with whom Sulley was well acquainted—not to mention good friends.  They had lent sympathetic ears towards Sulley's case at the hearing which had been arranged to determine whether or not it was "proper, prudent, and necessary" for Monsters, Inc. to switch to laugh power.  In fact, they were probably the greatest reason why the Board had accepted Sulley's proposal.  That, and the fact that the other members had become terrifically desperate for an end to the energy crisis, if only to save their hides.

Sulley hesitated, but decided against staying; he knew they were the laidback sort of monsters, anyway.  They wouldn't mind if he went out, especially if it was insinuated that he had to.

"Okay, great!" he said at last.  "Thanks, Celia."

Celia nodded, waving as he went out.  What Sulley didn't see was the last wide-eyed look she gave him as she watched him go, nor did he hear the short, befuddled "Hmmph" she let out before turning back to her work.

*************************

_I should've taken a jacket this morning._

A steady gust that harked back to midwinter pressed against Sulley's back as he walked, hunched down, along the sidewalk.  Though everyone should have been on lunch break, the restaurants stood sullenly to the side, almost hollow in the sense of their virtual vacancy.  The street itself was deserted, nary a car or anything else that usually confirmed the presence of folks in sight.  Everyone, it seemed, had taken to the same idea he was just realizing: the weather was unseasonably cold for an April afternoon, even in a town that regularly saw some kind of snowfall from November to late March.  Then again, Sulley hadn't anticipated leaving the factory until late that night—and in Mike's car, at that.  But the monster factor, or lack thereof, struck him as something of a positive: no bustle as folks tried to fit in a full meal with drinks in sixty minutes, no one to pester him (though usually meaning very well) since he was the new CEO of Monsters, Inc., an innovator, etc., etc., and had become a bit of an oddity because of it.  Even when Sulley saw that his favorite restaurant, the Hidden City Café, was closing for the time due to the lack of customers, he wasn't bothered in the least.  He hadn't been hungry, anyway; this whole walk was about the actual walking, and he knew the gears in his head worked best when he was actually _doing_ something.  Like his father, Sulley couldn't sit languidly at a restaurant table and mull over food.  He always thought best while on his feet.

And by now, he had come to a vital conclusion: his problem was all Randall.

He stopped for a moment, looking across the street, then back the way he was heading.  The two stout fruit stands at Tony's Grossery sat a short ways off, though they were presently devoid of fruit.  In any case, Sulley only noted this vaguely.  It was all very strange: except for the first few weeks after his disappearance, not one soul in or outside of the company had mentioned Randall Boggs—neither past nor possible present.  Almost _years_ had gone by without any acknowledgement of his ever existing in the first place.  Even Fungus had failed to bring up anything Randall-related until just a short while ago.  And, of course, _that_ was the thing: now, all of the sudden, Randall was a hot topic.  _Twice_ in one day he had come up, in one form or another, and with no discernable rhyme or reason to it.  And the worst part, at least for Sulley, was that the day wasn't even halfway over.  If Randall came up again—if he had to be reminded about the lying and the terrible, acid feeling he couldn't quite explain—he didn't know _what_ he'd do…

A high-pitched scream sounded.  Sulley shuddered and blinked, and his eyes shown clear with alarm.  He looked about quickly for the scream's source, but could see nothing up or down the street.  Then he heard the voices, not too far off; they were somewhat muffled, as if blocked out directly by a building or some other barrier.  He stood deathly still, straining to hear what they were saying.

"…If you touch me, I swear I'll rip your head off, you slimy, seven-eyed creep!"  The voice was hoarse, a bit savage in tone, but thoroughly female.

"I'll take you up on that, missy," replied a slick, impish voice, which proceeded to chuckle like a banshee.

Slowly, Sulley edged forward, trying to see if the voices grew any stronger.  He then saw the block open up just ahead, a narrow but definite gap between the barbershop and a condemned apartment complex.  An alley.

There was silence.  He was beginning to wonder if he had been mistaken in hearing anything at all when the female voice spoke up again.

"Oh, dear, _my_ mistake—that was a compliment."

The other voice sniggered croakily, but it abruptly stopped itself on a note of uncertainty.  Her tone had been coy and mild, and there was a sardonic air about it that gave him the willies.

The villain, however, was never given time to think twice about what he was planning to do.

There was a startled gasp.  And then…

"HIIIIIII-_YA!_"

An "Uffff!" sounded, followed by a crazy tumult of various knocked-over objects and scuffling on the ground.  Garbage critters yowled in surprise, and several dashed across the street into the trees or wherever they could find cover.  A coffee can rolled onto the sidewalk in front of Sulley.  He didn't dare to move, but his mouth hung wide open, immobile itself.

The commotion quieted down.  He could hear the hard breathing of the thug and his shuffling footsteps as he spun about.  There was a suggestion of dismay and anticipation, as if he were waiting for the next punches to be thrown but hadn't the slightest clue where they would come from…

The woman's voice returned, scathing and virulent:

"—_This_ is an insult!"

The thug let out a painful "YEEEEEEOOOOW!" and scuttled about again, knocking more things over (if that was possible) and "Ouch!"ing numerous times.  Sulley imagined the guy running around in circles—getting nowhere and unable to figure out how to remedy it.

After a final, loud "_Yeowch!_", the thug relented.  "Le' me go, le' me go!" he roared.  "Uncle!  Uncle!  I'm through!  Just le' me _GO!_"

She must have obliged, for a squat, furry monster presently ran out of the alley, his back to Sulley.  He was built like Ranft but had Waxford's multiple, stalked eyes—all of which now looked a bit warped and crooked.  The thug's arms were up and he was screaming shrilly, running down the street and only pausing between his screams to breath.  At last, he vanished around the corner, his short legs a tiny blur.

Sulley fumbled for his cell, walking briskly towards the alley to check things out.  He dialed Emergency and held the phone to his ear, listening impatiently to the rings on the other end.

"Hope that's not for me, furrie."

The last word struck with a cool, cutting sting.  He turned around, and—in the shock of seeing a lizard monster, and one resembling Randall closely enough—Sulley let the cell drop from his palm.

The woman caught it deftly, and then slithered on all eights in an odd but graceful backwards motion till she was at a comfortable distance away from him.  She lifted a mussed up, feathery head of hair to Sulley, its sheen coppery and made more intense by the salmon hue of her scales.  Her gray eyes bore into him as she stood in a sort of sprinter's position, one arm up and holding the cell while the others were braced against the ground.  Obviously, she was readying for attack.

Still taken aback but over it enough to react, Sulley put up his arms amicably.  "Easy, miss, it's okay," he assured her.  "I heard the whole thing and I just thought you might need some help—"

The embittered gleam in her eyes cut him off before her words.  "Help?  What kind of help am I supposed to expect from you?  Maybe an extra punch or two that thug hasn't already tried on me?"

"No, no, of course not!" he exclaimed, incredulous.  "I was just worried and wanted to make sure you were all right.  That's all."

The woman drew up to him and rose to eyelevel, in a manner very Randall-like and yet not Randall-like at all.  She was studying him again, her gray eyes intent and focused, very much looking into him through his own blue ones.  When she blinked at length, he expected her to slink down, pointedly satisfied or dissatisfied.  But instead she seemed to…wilt?  Fade?  Whatever it was, her expression fell and she moved back slowly, as if sapped or injured.

"Oh."  It came out muted, discomfited.  "I'm sorry, sir.  I…I didn't mean to act like that, to say those things…"  She trailed off.

" It's okay, really," Sulley answered gently, and meaning it.  "I've been called worse things before."  It was then he noticed the woman really only had _two_ arms, with an extra pair of legs making up the total of eight.

Not sure how to continue, he tried an obvious, generic question.  "Are you all right, miss?"

"Yeah."  She patted her hair down some and distractedly ran a hand over her fronds, which were tipped with scarlet.  "Oh.  Here's your cell back."

She tossed it, and Sulley faltered with the tiny thing as if it were a bar of soap before getting a handle on it.  "Thank you."  He put the cell away and looked again at the woman, who couldn't seem to bring herself to look back at him.  They stood this way for several awkward moments before the woman let out a short gasp.

"My sweater," she muttered, faintly shivering.  "It must've fallen off in the alley."

Sulley beamed involuntarily.  "I'll get it for you, if you'd like—"

"No."  She stopped rubbing her arms, crouching.  "No.  I'll just do it myself."

On all eights again, she slipped past him and toward the alley, seeming to flow across the sidewalk more than anything.  Sulley watched as she disappeared around the barbershop, and continued to stare for a good while at the spot where he'd last seen her tail.  She emerged moments later, standing upright and tugging on a white fleece sweater, which was smudged with dirt and garbage gunk.

"There."  The woman stood before him again now, tastefully picking away and peeling off whatever grime she could.  "That disrespectful weasel…"  She looked up suddenly, seeming to remember her shame, then cast her eyes downward.

More silence.  "Well, it was nice meeting you," she said at length, turning to go.

At a loss, Sulley was about to return the goodbye when he spotted something that caught him short.  "Wait!"

The woman stopped, turning her head a little.  "What?  Is something wrong?"

"No…"  Sulley squinted, but saw that he wasn't mistaken: along her crimson-speckled back, peeking from underneath the sweater, stood out a pale, jagged line running mostly along her spine.  It was a long, wicked looking thing, and as much as he didn't want to be reminded of Randall, it simply couldn't be helped.  Not with this.

"That scar…" he began.

She cocked an eye ridge warily.  "Yeah?  What about it?"

"Nothing," Sulley said quickly.  "It's just that I…once knew a guy with a scar like that one.  With a bunch, actually."

Self-consciously, she reached a hand back to touch the white sliver.  Her eyes were thoughtful.  "These aren't easy scars to get.  At least not for a lizard monster."  She looked up at Sulley.  "I'd imagine your friend went through a lot."

"Yeah."  That she used the word "friend" sent an inner twinge through him, though not as much out of disgust as incredulity.

The woman drew closer, observing him with guarded marvel.  "You're not like the others," she told him, shaking her head.  "You don't strike me as someone who'd feel like he _has_ to bully us around, who'd give us scars like these…"  She caressed hers briefly.  "I'd at least hope you've never done things like that."  Her gaze became probing, but this time not so much suspicious as hopeful.  "Honestly, sir, have you?"

Sulley tightened his lips, but the answer rushed out with little regard to thinking. "Never."

_Doh!  NOW you've done it!_  There was no convincing himself this wasn't the most bold-faced lie—

There was pressure on his right forearm, near the elbow.  He looked down to see she had her hand there and was squeezing gently.  "You're a good man."  Her face twisted in puzzlement.  "Mr.…?"

"Sullivan," he blurted.  "James P. Sullivan.  But I like Sulley best."  He finished with a chuckle.  _Boy, I'm glad I'm furry_, he thought, feeling the heat in his cheeks.

The woman's eyes narrowed, a smile playing on her lips.  "Wait a minute…" she said, stooping and moving around him in a mischievous, characteristically serpentine way.  "You aren't that new CEO of Monsters, Incorporated, are you?"

Sulley chuckled again.  "Actually, yes.  I am."

She stood up straight, placing her hands on her hips.  "Ha!  The CEO of the largest power company in Monstropolis is a nice guy.  Now _that's_ a breath of fresh air!"

Genuinely flattered (which was a first for these types of compliments), he grinned at the woman.  "Well, I'm just…hey!  I never caught _your_ name."

She extended a hand to him.  "I'm Janis Lovey," she said as he took it.  "I just moved here from the west coast—the Southern Howlifornia area, to be exact."

His eyes widened.  "Hey!  I've got some cousins there."  Then his face fell.  "Oh…I'm sorry if any of them have, well, you know…"

"It's okay," Janis said, in much the same way he had earlier.  "They're not for you to worry about."

The scenery around the two brightened as the sun peeked through the clouds.  Sulley looked about, thankful for the sudden warmth.  "Say, do you think we could—"

"Exchange phone numbers and e-mails?" she finished for him.  Her expression had a sly, pleased leaning to it.  "I don't see why not."

They did so, and with that they parted company.  If nothing else, Sulley would come back to work with a bemused but cheery smile, and leave everyone wondering what the heck had gotten into him.  _Celia'll know something's up.  But I can't _wait_ to see the look on Mike's face when I come in and tell him what happened to me during lunch…_

He laughed, sufficiently warm and content, and the Randall problem somehow miles away.

*************************

In the distance, outside of Monstropolis and of Sulley's awareness, a thin peak with the lingering traces of a snowcap began to glow.  The light it emitted was so subtle, though, that only those who cared to study the mountain would notice it, which would've then led them to figure that something very weird was going on…

************************************************************************

So, what do ya think?  Sure, not tons of plot so far, but a lot of important set up, I promise.  And I know it might be a bit early in the game to ask, but if any of you guys have ideas for voice talents for any of my original chars, I'm ALL ears.^_^  Thanks!


	2. Change of Luck?

************************************************************************************

HOMECOMING

By Light Rises 

**Author's Note****:** YAHOO!  I finally updated!^_^  Sorry for the long wait, guys, but school's been killer since Holiday Break and I simply didn't have time to finish this off till recently.  Anyhow, thanks a bunch for your patience; I'll see what I can do about picking up the pace, though I'm afraid I can't make any promises.

A HUGE thanks for all of your wonderful reviews, and to Sean in particular for his warm welcome to FF.net.^_^  Now as mentioned before, the Prolog's purpose was to set up and establish important things going on in Monstropolis.  Chapter 1 here—set in the Human World—touches on and gives a REAL sense of what this story's gonna be all about.  So grab a bag of popcorn, sit down, relax, and enjoy!

Oh!  And this takes place on Friday, April 11, 2003.

**Disclaimer****:** The reverse of what I said in the Prolog is true here—I own just about everything except one character…someone whom I believe should be _pretty_ obvious.~_^

*************************

Chapter 1 – Change of Luck?

"Stand down!  I tell you—"

"No."

Devon tried a grab at the girl, but her bangs fell like a partition over her eyes, forcing her to jerk to a stop.  Through the sticky strands she could just make out a small, stout figure standing near the family room couch.

Off-handedly, she brushed them aside.  "Get off it," she tried again.  "I'm entitled to this turn and you know it!  Just stand down and deal, okay?"  Right now, her voice sounded more like a small child's than usual.

"No."

Devon caught a snarl from coming through her teeth.  _It's no good._  She herself was the only one losing her cool, getting mad and letting it show.  This was Alex's way, she was convinced; this was how the little brat always won without raising a fist.  _Well, not if I can help it.  Not this time._

She let the tenseness seep into her clenched fists.  "Now come on, Alex, dear," Devon said, her voice sweet.  "Let's be reasonable about this—"

Sprawled out on the couch now, Alex let out a dubious laugh.  "Ha!  Fat chance _you'll_ be 'reasonable' 'til you stop actin' like the weirdo they say you are!"

In the back of her head, something snapped.  Devon sprung forward with that suppressed snarl and brought down all her wiry strength on the smug little figure.  Alex easily slipped away, though, and her sister fell as a tangled clump of limbs on top of the cushions.  She could hear the girl's snigger through the faint, squeaky sound they made as her weight sunk into them.

Devon let out a low, loud growl before pouncing again, and this time caught Alex with a hollow _smack_ against the floor rug.  She tried wrapping and pinioning the girl into submission, but she squirmed and strained too much to hold down under her own power for long.  She felt a hand grab at her shirt collar, her glasses, her hair.  The last incited even more rage, and Devon reached out her arms, savagely batting and clawing at the air in hopes of grabbing something of Alex's in return.

"Hey—stop it, the both of you!  Move a-_way_."

A stock of raven black hair interposed itself between them.  Devon felt a strong arm pry her away and she came loose from the scuffle, still flailing some, blindly.  After a moment she looked up through her bangs to see Alex, huffing and puffing similarly and held back by another arm.  The referee (also known as their mother) glared at the two sternly before standing back somewhat, no daring to let go of either lest they go at it again.

"Okay," said Mrs. Vega, breathing out.  "Now would you two _please_ tell me what this is all about—this time?"  She added the last as much as an emphasis as an afterthought.

Devon opened her mouth, but Alex's voice cut in.  "What happened is _she_ went batty"—an accusing finger was shot at Devon—"'cause I wouldn't let her bully me around!"

"Hunh!  _That's_ a likely story."  If anything, sarcasm kept Devon from trying to take sucker punches whenever the urge seized her.

Alex seemed to hold back a pout at this.  "I'm not that stupid, Dev.  Not stupid enough to let you take _my_ turn when I _know_ it's mine."

"Your turn for what?" Mrs. Vega prodded her, gently.

The younger girl took in a breath.  Devon would have much rather given testimony herself, but if Alex was _that_ set on portraying herself as the angel, what could she do?  Besides, there was the chance she would royally slip up in the telling and thus screw herself over.

"Morgan's coming down for the weekend," Alex bubbled, "and Friday's the only night she can fit in time to spend with us.  You know, special time."

Mrs. Vega nodded solemnly, and Devon understood why: their oldest sister was a college student who dearly loved her paychecks, even if it meant working crazy hours on Saturdays and Sundays part-time.  "I don't see the problem in that," their mother commented.

Alex took in another breath, her round face flushing.  "The problem is," she enunciated, "that we _a-greed_ to take turns: she'd get one Friday, I'd get the next.  Dev got Morg to herself last time, and I was just tellin' her it was my night and she went nuts on me!"

Mrs. Vega arched an eyebrow.  "You 'told' her, huh?  Now that doesn't exactly sound polite, does it?"

Alex let out an exaggerated sigh.  Her sister was sure she was rolling her eyes under the closed lids.  "'Kay, I more like _reminded_ her.  I swear."

Their mother nodded in confirmation, the suspicion not completely gone from her gaze.  She turned to Devon.  "Can you confirm all that, hon?"

Devon internally winced at the tenderness of the inquiry.  _Why does she always make me feel like that?_  "Mostly, yeah," she answered sullenly.

It was Mrs. Vega's turn to sigh—a weary, slightly sad one.  "Unless I'm mistaken, Dev—and if forty-odd years on this planet means anything—I'd have to question whether that was really worth a fight over."

Looking up at her mother for the first time, Devon caught her eyes and the disappointment lining her striking features.  She couldn't help but feel a mix of shame and resentment at the sight, at the woman who tried so hard to be understanding.  _"Tried" being the operative word_, the thought came pointedly.

A long moment passed before she answered.  "Maybe it wasn't."

"'Maybe'?" Mrs. Vega asked.  Confusion and concern edged her voice.  "Why's that?"

Anger roiled in Devon anew, tensing her insides in a sweeping wave.  "Because she called me a 'weirdo'."  Her tone was dark, almost dangerous.

"Hey, that's not right!" Alex piped up, stepping forward.  "All I said was that kids at my _school_ were calling her that.  Besides," she added, crossing her arms and affecting haughtiness, "whether or not I agree with them is my own business—"

The "ness" had barely gotten out when Alex found Devon lunging at her again, only this time restrained by their mother.  And UNlike last time, Mrs. Vega was having a hard time of it.

"_I'll kill you!_" Devon roared, rage dripping from her words.  "I swear I will!"

Alex glanced at Mrs. Vega with panicked eyes.  "See!  See!  I told ya she was a nutcase!" she squealed, partially hiding behind her mother.

Another snarl curled Devon's lips.  Her glasses slipped down her nose and she pushed them back up in a gesture wrought by both nerves and fury.  "That was out of line," she said, quieter and a little hoarse.  "That was out of line and you know it!"

Her counter was crisp.  "Well it's not like you're _doin'_ anything to stop making everybody think you're a freak!"

"_Alex!_"  Now Mrs. Vega's voice had dangerous undertones to it.

The little girl shot impetuous glares at them both.  But it was clear now she'd been defeated.  "FINE!"  She stomped out of the family room, slamming that door and the one to her bedroom in quick succession.

Devon didn't make a move to give chase, so her mother's grip slid off.  Mrs. Vega looked after the shut door, then slowly drew a hand up, pressing her fingertips to her forehead.  The look she gave her daughter as she turned around was pained, though veiled by aggravation.

"Devon Marie Vega," she said in a firm, hushed voice, "you know so much _better_ than that."

Devon sniffled, convulsively.  This was horrid, so awful and churning to let down this beautiful woman—a lovely person, really.  _But for all that_, she thought with a wave of bitter realization, _she doesn't get it_.  She looked to the floor, shaking her head almost imperceptibly.  _She just doesn't get it…_

With a blast of noise, music began to boom behind the door.  Mrs. Vega started then furrowed her brows with a frustrated grunt.  "Ay, my…"  She gave Devon a no-nonsense look and shook a finger at her.  "You'll be dealt with later," she said before turning heel and disappearing through the door, letting its knob thump gently against the wall.

In the quiet, Devon stood stone still, as if uncertain of what to do.  Then the lazy cawing of a crow set off something in her head and she took off, sprinting in long, ungainly strides through the kitchen, the den, the sun-filled hallway.  She was already screaming in her mind's eye and she had to let it out, holler it into the closed air of her room—even a cushion, a pillow would do.  _That's it, a pillow_, she thought feverishly.  _Then maybe no one'll hear me and give me those strange, sad looks like I'm some kind of sick animal_—

She pushed through the door and its exposed frame into dimness.  Her footsteps tread, thudding, across floor and area rug as she reached for her bed and one of the pillows lying on top.  But something out of the corner of her eye stopped Devon short, and she pivoted to look.  A cool glow was emanating from the far corner of her room, tucked away alongside a cluttered bookcase.  It came from a tall-ish terrarium, which was furnished with all the amenities that made domestic life perfectly suitable for exotic critters; and as she stepped towards it, she spotted such a particular resident, squatting on a mini log and looking as content as she guessed one of his kind could be…

"Hey, Reggie-kins," came her soft greeting.

A smile touched the corners of her mouth as the pale, plump belly of a large White's Tree frog turned to her, almost as if he had understood and was answering her call.  Taking a cue from that, Devon got down on her belly before the terrarium, perching her chin atop two fists as she peered into Reggie's luminous, safe world.  She couldn't explain it for beans, but just that quiet sight of seeing the frog's throat pulsate, puffing in and out rhythmically, brought her a kind of incredible, simple joy.  Here, she could just watch on and simply _be_…never have to worry about anyone being judgmental, in whatever many forms that would come.  And they came, all right.

"Least I don't have to worry about _you_ gagging at my ugly mug," she muttered.  Even with the near lack of light in the room, Devon's reflection still mirrored cleanly and clearly enough for self-appraisal: a broad, stubby nose, with thin lips drawn in a long line underneath, followed by a tiny chin that made her laugh at its near nonexistence.  She stared blandly into what she considered alien eyes behind those thick lenses, though they were her mother's deep, expressive brown.  Her hair—no, she wouldn't even get started on _that_.  And thank heavens she could see little to nothing of it, anyway.  With an urge spurred by self-loathing, Devon made an exaggerated grimace at the transparent image, looking what she thought—with grim satisfaction—terribly monstrous.

_Rat-tat-tat._

"Is Miss Farnsworth in?"

She perked up at the familiar, teasing voice; she was a bit surprised since she hadn't heard him come in the house, but the interruption was welcome.  Without missing a beat she played along.  "Yes, sir.  What business brings you here?"

"The colonel ordered an envoy to come negotiate a possible 'ceasefire' in this household.  I've got the papers to confirm it."

Devon rolled her eyes.  _Always says he's got the papers…_  "All right, you may enter," was her bored reply.

A small but solid figure stepped into the bedroom.  He squinted in the darkness a bit before finding Devon herself, who still lay on the floor in front of the terrarium.  "If you don't mind me asking," said Mr. Vega, his voice warmed with amusement, "I'd like to know when you started shunning the daylight."

Devon gave him a sidelong glance, stifling a giggle.  "I haven't.  I just forgot to pull the blinds up this morning."

Mr. Vega shrugged one shoulder.  "All right.  Just checkin'," he replied, fully switched out of "cavalry" mode.  With a brief reflective look, he eased his back onto the doorframe, leaning all his weight against it so he could stretch out his legs across the doorway.  He extracted a small, rectangular block of wood from his pocket before glancing at her again.  "And I guess I can suppose you aren't in a big hurry to fix that, are you?" he drawled, flipping open a pocketknife.

She shook her head with the reply.  "_Nnnnope_."

Again he shrugged.  "Suit yourself."  With that, he started whittling away at the soft block, a silent whistle blowing through his lips. 

Devon gave him an odd, vaguely admiring look.  There _had_ to be laws against fathers acting so casual—at least around their kids.  And she supposed hers had to be the biggest culprit of them all; under normal circumstances, he simply _despised_ carrying around the stuffy airs everyone expected a settled-down family man to have.  But the fact was that he had something important to do now, and when he'd finally get around to it…

"I know you two were fighting again.  Believe me—I saw the evidence."  Mr. Vega looked her way, his eyes hardening.  "So before we lose another five hundred in damages, I want to hear what you've got and settle this once and for all."

Yep.  That was it: Father Mode.

He'd only dropped the casualness from his voice; he was still leaning against the doorframe, shoulders slack.  But the firm intent shone through.  "Would you care to explain your actions?"

From the floor, Devon stiffened, feeling a defensive tenseness rake her insides.  Even if this _was_ her dad, she wanted nothing more than to be left alone now.  Why couldn't they just get off her back?

"I don't wanna talk about it," she told him flatly.

Mr. Vega stared back for a long moment before nodding.  "I see."  Looking down, he slipped the wood block and pocketknife into their respective pockets, patting them unceremoniously once the tools were put away.  His eyes suddenly glittered as they locked back into hers.  "You know, it's not looking too bad out there today.  Why don't we go take a walk?  Just us two?"

Despite her mood, she found herself warming up to the suggestion.  A walk sounded nice—so long as it wasn't packed with philosophical, life-lesson gobbledygook.  And that simply wasn't something you'd get from her father.

Devon answered him with a slight shrug.  "Sure.  Why not?"  Awkwardly, she picked herself off the floor, helped up the rest of the way by Mr. Vega when he saw she was having some trouble.  She looked up at him and smiled with a faint twinge of jealousy at his eyes.  _Now why couldn't I get_ that _from him?_ she questioned, admiring the green-dominated hazel of his irises.  _It figures I'd get all the common, plain stuff from my folks…_

They stepped into the hallway outside her room, heading for the den and a door leading outside.  Mr. Vega undid the lock and swung the door outward, so that they presently stood at the right side of the house in an enclosure with a squat lemon tree.  As they left the fenced-in area for the sidewalk, Devon looked around and back, spotting the tree and the yellow roses rearing up before it.  It felt good to be out, though it was surprisingly cold for this time of year in Southern California.  Well, so much for being prepared; at least her father had the right mind to _leave_ his jacket on instead of bothering to shuck it off once inside the house's stuffiness…

Then it hit her.  _He KNEW it would come to this all along!  That little so-and-so—_

She shot Mr. Vega a snappish glare.  He seemed to know what she was thinking, for a slow, almost evil smirk curled his lips.  He suddenly sped up by a couple strides and she hastened to match his step, out of instinct.  The two were only about forty yards from the house when he stopped, prompting Devon to give him a puzzled look.  Without pretense, her father plopped down onto the curb, then patted the spot next to him as an invitation.  _What kind of a walk is this supposed to be?_ she wondered.  Not so at ease with the world around her, Devon slowly hunkered down onto the offered seat, then gave him a look as if to say, "What now?"

Mr. Vega had his gaze focused across the street.  "You know what you did was wrong," he stated simply.

_Ah, great.  He's starting with _that_?_  She wrapped her arms around her knees, furrowing her brows at him.  "Dad, you can't—"

"Can't what?  I can't talk with you about something serious because you're afraid of what the 'father' would think?"  He turned to her, his eyes gleaming with the challenge in his tone.  Then the look became sober.

"Then what about the 'outcast', Dev?  Can you deal with _him_?"

Devon bit her lip, shifted uneasily in the grass and cement.  If her father was willing to bring _that_ up, then he must mean business.  For that, she at least owed him something of an explanation.

"I…couldn't help it," she began, haltingly.  "When people look my way funny, I…I dunno…it sends chills and it's _horrible_.  Then I have to _do_ something—I'll implode otherwise, I know it.  I'll just fall apart, and…"  She glanced up suddenly, a resolute scowl forming.  "And I won't let _them_ see it!"

Mr. Vega nodded in understanding.  "Hey, I wouldn't want them to have the pleasure, either," he agreed.  "But why take it out on Alex?  She's your _sister_—"

"And she's one of them," she cut him off.  "She's normal and _hates_ that she has to deal with a stupid and ugly sister like me."  A heavy, sad sigh overcame her, so that she forgot the bleakness for an instant.  "So she'll never get it…and neither can Mom."

Her father had balked and opened his mouth to protest, but stopped short.  Devon knew what'd upset him: it was natural, considering she _was_ his daughter, thus making it his job to tell her she was pretty and perfect.  But he seemed to realize she wasn't buying it anymore.  So instead, Mr. Vega regarded her a moment as he thought through what he should say next.

"You know, your mom understands better than you give her credit for," he said kindly.  "Why do you think _I'm_ the one lecturing you instead of her?"

Devon smiled down at her feet.  "It's not a lecture.  At least not when you do it."

"The point exactly."  He smiled too, then let out a strange, bittersweet chuckle.  "Besides, it's pretty crazy otherwise to think of a gorgeous gal like her goin' for a guy like me…"

He became very quiet.  Devon turned back to him as a cool, fitful breeze blew against them; it ruffled his russet-colored hair and forced him to squint a little as the air assaulted his eyes.  It was in moments like these she could plainly see the years of street-roughness in his features, especially around the eyes and corners of the mouth.  Her gaze naturally followed down the jaw line facing towards her to a white, jagged streak along his throat.  That fight had nearly killed him, she was told…and he seemed to remember these painful things more often than he let on.  Several times already—like just now—his clean, "educated" dialect lapsed into Bronx, which he always overlooked whenever thinking about the old days.  And it was that kind of vulnerability that made Devon uncomfortable—as if her father _couldn't_ face everything the world was throwing at her.  As if one day, perhaps, he might not be able to make it all better…

"Hey," Mr. Vega spoke up.  "Isn't that the soccer team practicing over there—at the school?"

Devon narrowed her eyes at the place her father was pointing towards.  They were looking down the street, away from the house to where their street was cut off by the back of a junior high school.  Behind the chain link fence were clothed specks running around a large, grassy field.

"Hmmm…I doubt it," she answered, shaking her head.  "Not on the Friday before Spring Break, at least."

"Then a picnic, maybe," he guessed.  He suddenly looked to her, curious.  "Think there's anyone out there you know from last year?"

Devon snorted softly.  "Not that I'd _care_ about."

She averted her face from the field, a familiar, sour feeling welling up.  Junior high had been a nightmare—and only partly because no one there had known _what_ to make of a girl like her.  The normal kids had tried a whole gamut of labels: "tomboy", "geek", "loner", even "goth", though the last was more ill-fitting than all the others combined.  And life at Edgewood High wasn't shaping up to be any better.  By day three of the new school year, one wiseacre had tried "retard" on Devon—and found himself in no condition to return for two weeks once she was "through" with him.  But even these brief moments of triumph weren't so satisfying anymore.  At the end of the day—everyday—they still pointed at her, they still talked behind her back, and they still _laughed_…

"School's all wrong," she said aloud.  Mr. Vega watched her steadily as she continued.  "No one wants me around—they know I don't belong—but nobody has the backbone to say any of that outright.  Even my _teachers_ won't humor me with the truth; maybe they just hate my guts too much to do me that favor."  She suddenly ran out of bitterness, leaving that tender spot inside her exposed and vulnerable.  Devon tried to choke down the lump growing in her throat with her next words.  "I…I really don't know if I can take much more of it.  I just…_want out_."  She looked up at her father, her lips trembling.  "Dad—"

"I know, Sweets," he said softly.  Mr. Vega wrapped an arm around her, holding the girl gently as Devon buried her head in his shoulder.  She couldn't bring herself to cry, not even dry sobs.  All she could manage were low, strangled breaths as the warmth against her cheek already started to calm her.  It was one of those rare moments when she felt totally safe—protected and cared for beyond any reasonable doubt.  She was wondering why it couldn't always feel like this when she felt her father stir.  As she looked up she saw his face was heavenward, and that a faraway look was in his eyes.  "I wish…" he began, then stopped himself.  "No."  His brows were furrowed resolutely.  "I can't fight your battles, Dev, and neither can anyone else."  He finished with a sigh, "I'm afraid this is something you're gonna have to figure out on your own."

To say the least, this was NOT an answer Devon liked.  She pressed up against him momentarily before drawing away, then blew a silent sigh through her lips.  The truth was, she couldn't hate him for being frank—actually something to be admired, she guessed.  And coming from him, there just _had_ to be something to that kind of advice, no matter how sucky it sounded right now.

As she pondered on this, an inspired look warmed Mr. Vega's features.  His green-bronze eyes glittered like they had earlier as he cocked his head towards her conspiratorially.

"I haven't told Mom this yet," he said in a low voice, "and she'd probably have my tail if she ever found out…but I think there's something seriously _weird_ going on in this neighborhood."

Devon blinked at him, her curiosity roused.  "How so?"

Mr. Vega was doing all he could to hold back an eager grin.  "Have you noticed all the crows and possums that haven't been around here lately?"

She half-shrugged.  "I guess.  It's not something I really pay attention to."

"Well, then how about the Renquists' rabbits?" he tried.  "How two of 'em went missing last week?"

She let out a laugh.  "Oh, yeah!  Finny and Mrs. Porter, the little buggers…"  Something dawned on her and she suddenly looked to her father, searchingly.  "So…what about them?"

Mr. Vega grimaced slightly, though it didn't overshadow his quiet excitement.  "This morning I found Mrs. Porter—or at least what's left of her—out in the shed."

After a moment, Devon's eyes widened.  "But that means—"

"Yep."  He straightened, beaming down at her more with his eyes than his mouth.  "It looks like whatever's responsible is staked out in our backyard."

The way he'd said this sent a chill through her, but not a bad one.  It was more like a buzz—something to be _excited_ about rather than frightened, and without any real reason for feeling that way.  _Maybe it's just because the idea's thrilling _him, she thought, trying to be logical before getting her hopes up.  _But then why?_

"How can you be sure?" she asked aloud.  Try as she might, Devon couldn't cover the eagerness in her own voice.

Mr. Vega scratched the back of his head absently.  "Well, Finny was a little guy, and unless there's a possum as big as _that_ old hare…"  He shook his head.  "Nope.  It's gotta be Mrs. Porter."

Devon started eyeing her father suspiciously.  Okay; she'd buy that.  But it wasn't what she meant by the question in the first place and he'd _known_ it.  On top of that, Mr. Vega seemed to be holding back somehow, and about something _very_ important in the whole scheme of things.

So she tried a different angle.  "But maybe Darby got to her.  I mean sure, Mrs. Porter was huge, but in comparison our dog's a _monster_."

Her father arched an eyebrow at her dubiously.  "You think Darby's clever enough to hide the bones in an old soup can?  With the lid closed?"

That stopped Devon short.  He had a point there: though she could very well kill a rabbit, Darby wasn't exactly a smart cookie—even in canine terms.  And one dog couldn't account for all those missing animals anyway, and NOT without being caught.  So…

"So we're dealing with something that might be…_intelligent_?"

Mr. Vega leaned back on his arms, rolling his eyes heavenward.  "At least more so than _we've_ ever of."

_Bingo_.

The internal buzz was getting stronger, along with her excitement.  Finally—something BIG might be happening around here!  And in her backyard, of all places!  But there was still one thing that didn't quite sit right with her, and she was going to find out about it if possible.

"Dad…why tell _me_ all this?"

Mr. Vega breathed out.  "Looks like you've got me there," he admitted.  "I mean, I guess it _would've_ made more sense to tell Mom first, and I'd wager that after a couple minutes of convincing she wouldn't be as panicky as most folks.  But still—"  He paused, grunting softly as he searched his mind for the right words.  "I don't know.  For some reason, I just can't see sharing this with anyone else."

He gave a half-smile, and Devon grinned back at him.  It wasn't often that being thought of as "different" had its rewards.

"You know, it really _could_ be nothing," she goaded, though not without some real doubts behind the thought.

Mr. Vega shrugged.  "It's a possibility," he said lightly.  "All the same, this 'critter-killer' feels like something we should watch out for—to see how the situation develops, that is."  He suddenly straightened again.  "Say, I just figured out how to kill two birds with one stone."

Devon knew this didn't always bode well for her, but she was in too good a mood to care much.  "How'll you do that?" she asked.

He picked himself from the curb, standing upright.  "I'll make you a deal," he said, offering a hand to help her up.  "You try being a little nicer to Alex, and I'll make sure this thing stays between the two of us.  As our little secret."

Once standing, the girl tilted her head at him, eyes narrowed.  "Even what happened to Mrs. Porter?"

"Even Mrs. Porter," he answered with a nod.  "So what do you say?"

Devon stuck a tongue in her cheek, lowering her lashes against the late afternoon light.  _It'll be like pulling teeth, but…_

"I'll do it."

Mr. Vega lent her a hand again, looking at her cockeyed.  "Then put 'er there, pardner!"

Devon burst into laughter as she took it.  "You kill me," she managed, shaking her head.

The bizarre exchange was interrupted by the on-coming droning of an engine.  Seconds later a small, gray car appeared around the corner of their street, its windshield winking at them with reflected sunlight.

"That'd be Morgan," Mr. Vega announced.  "And not a moment too soon, I'd guess."

Devon pulled at his arm eagerly.  "Come on.  Let's say hello."

"Okay, okay!" he relented, chuckling.  "But for the record, I'll bet the _real_ party won't start 'til those two are gone."

They started back towards the house as Morgan's car backed into its usual parking space right in front.  But Devon noticed little of this activity; the mystery of the shed had flared up in her mind again, and its possible implications for herself—for everything—wouldn't let her alone.  But who was _she_ to suppose it would change anything?

_It has to_, she insisted mentally.  She leaned against her father as they walked, as if seeking support.  _Because…_

_Because something might actually go RIGHT around here for once!_

*************************

Later that night, once Morgan and Alex had left for their "night on the town", the rest of the family sat at the kitchen table finishing up dinner.  So far for Devon, the evening had gone by rather swimmingly: deep-dish pizza was the entrée, while her Grandma Lita had brought over a batch of meat-filled _croquetas_ to round off the meal.  Conversation at the dinner table had been pleasant, too—all the usual topics were covered, and without any strain on either the parents' or the child's part.  Her mother even managed to restrain herself from bringing up the fight, and most likely due to some delicate negotiations on her dad's part earlier on.

The view outside the kitchen window was silent, deep with the night's settling darkness.  The three Vegas presently stood up and gathered their dirtied paper plates to throw away.  The first one finished with this task, Mrs. Vega made her way back to the table and shot the others a playful, inquiring look.  "So what'll it be tonight?"

Mr. Vega shrugged disinterestedly as he dumped his plate into the wastebasket.  "Quite frankly, I dunno if I'm in the _mood_ for anything we've got here."

Devon nodded.  "Ditto."

"Really?  Well, how about I give it a shot?"  She started rolling up the tablecloth as she thought a moment.  "Let's see…how does 'Yahtzee' sound?"

"_Meh_," he muttered.

"Ditto again," said Devon.  "We've prob'bly had enough of it to last us till Doomsday."

Mrs. Vega leaned against the table's edge with one arm, her other hand at her hip.  Apparently, she wasn't about to be perturbed by the lack of enthusiasm.  "Okay, then.  What about 'Clue'?"

Devon scowled.  "You _always_ win at 'Clue'."

"—and are a sore loser when you don't," Mr. Vega added.

Her mother gave them a smug grin.  "_I_ think the only sore losers here are you two," she said teasingly.

Mr. Vega raised his brows at this.  "And what makes you think that?"

"Oh, a number of things," she answered lightly, giving a gentle massage on his shoulders as he sat back down.  "Not the least of which was that charades fiasco a couple weeks ago."

There were disgusted shudders all around.

"Blech!  But we _all_ stunk that night, Vick," he pointed out, voice a bit higher than normal.

"I know."  Mrs. Vega seated herself as Devon did the same.  "But you have to admit—it _was_ terribly entertaining."

Her husband held back a snort.  "Yeah-huh.  Just don't go expecting me to take another crack at it 'til we get a decent player or two," he told her.

"Now _that_ I'll agree with!"  Mrs. Vega's cheerful look suddenly faded, replaced with something more reflective.  "So…you two wouldn't mind clarifying why you've been acting so secretive today, would you?"

Devon jerked her head upright, glancing at her father.  But he only blinked, his eyes going large and round with phony innocence.  "I don't know what you're talking about," he replied smoothly.

His wife quirked an eyebrow, lowering her lids.  "Uh-huh.  So then you don't mind if I tear the house apart finding this so-called 'nothing'?"

Mr. Vega grimaced indifferently.  "Be my guest.  But just remember that _you _called it a 'nothing' first."  He gave his daughter a quick wink.

Devon covered her mouth, hiding a smile.  It was unfortunate wording on her mom's part; after all, there technically was nothing secretive _in_ the house, and thus nothing to hide as far as she had specified.  But Devon's amusement died as she saw her mother's expression change again.  This time, though, Mrs. Vega put on a look her daughter had never seen before—a deep, deep yearning now permeated her brown eyes, something she'd never thought _her_ mom, of all people, could know about or understand.  But it was there; subtle, but there.

Unconsciously, Mrs. Vega started twisting at her wedding ring.  "Look, you guys," she began with an uncharacteristic stammer.  "I know how you two are in on some things that aren't for me or the other girls.  And I can accept that—you need those kinds of breaks.  But…"  She worked her lower jaw, then stiffened it doggedly.  "Well, just this once, is it too much to ask to let _me_ in on—?"

_THUNK_.

Everyone jumped, then exchanged startled, somewhat hesitant glances.

"What was that?" asked Mrs. Vega.

Her husband pursed his lips, staring with suspicion at the ceiling.  "Dunno.  Probably just a possum or cat, though.  No biggie."

Mrs. Vega's eyes were incredulous.  "But that sounded—"

"Bigger?" Devon finished.  Her voice had gotten very small.

Mr. Vega shook his head.  "It's nothing," he stated.  "We're just makin' ourselves jumpy."  He turned to Devon, and she noted a look of desperation in his eyes that didn't match his firm voice.  She could almost hear him thinking, _Not now…_

The night suddenly resounded with a series of gruff, punctuated barks.  Their familiarity traced an icy finger along Devon's spine.

Mrs. Vega drew her brows together as she looked out the window.  "Darby never barks like that—even over a cat."

Decisively, Mr. Vega brought his palms down on the table.  "I'll go check out back," he said before moving towards the back door.

Mrs. Vega started after him, but before she could take two steps a cheery _ding-dong_ froze her in her tracks.  She glanced to the front then turned back, choosing to ignore it, only to find her husband through the door and gone.  She sighed in exasperation as the bell rang again.

"Guess I'll get that," she muttered, stalking off to answer the door.

Alone and still sitting at the kitchen table, Devon wavered over what to do.  She clenched her jaw and drummed her fingers briefly before soon she, too, slammed a hand against the table…though not nearly with so much resolve.  Her knees felt watery as she stood up, but she managed to push the chair back and hobble towards the back door, biting her lower lip at the unpleasant sensation.

_What a wuss!_ she scolded herself, head bent.  _This could be THE most important thing to ever happen to you, and look!  You're shaking like a leaf!_  With a sigh, Devon sluggishly blinked at the doorknob.  At least out of all the things that made her dad different from everyone else, he had one redeeming quality: bravery.  Something she'd bet vital organs that she hadn't a wit of.

_—There's my label, then_, she thought sourly.  _"Coward."_

With a heavy gulp, Devon cracked open the door to peek into the darkness beyond, then nudged it the rest of the way.  Her feet touched cool concrete as she descended a couple stair steps into the backyard, which was all cemented save the pool and some small dirt areas where unkempt fruit trees and miscellaneous plants grew.  Crickets chirped warmly, and a few of the stronger, brighter stars flecked the night sky through the ambient light.  As she surveyed the scene, everything bathed in moonlight, an out-of-place detail made her do a double take: several shingles lay on the ground near the house, with another caught in the rain gutter and a whole slew jostled around on the roof itself.  One more hung precariously on the roof's lip, swaying slightly in the wind and making Devon frown.  Well, if she'd wanted something BIG to happen, it looked like she was gonna get it—and tonight.

She realized that Darby's barking had died down, and she looked to see the large, black dog trotting about and sniffing nervously at a ramshackle shed at the yard's far corner.  The wooden door lay against one side, its hinges having rusted through long ago, and hunkered down in front of the black entryway was her father.

Curiosity overwhelming any sense of caution, she ran across the yard to join him.  "Dad!" she called, voice hushed.

Mr. Vega turned as she came up to him.  His distracted expression suddenly became alarmed.  "_Dev!_  What're you—?"

"It's in there, isn't it?" she interrupted.  Her tone was soft, fraught with awe and dread.

He started glaring at the girl, making his irritation—a rarity for him—obvious.  "This is _not_ a good time, Dev.  Now just _please_ head back—"

Devon's widened, frightened eyes cut him off.  Her glasses glinted as she covered her mouth with both hands, letting out a strangled gasp.  She'd seen something _move_ in there!

Mr. Vega gripped a raised forearm, bringing a finger to his lips as he gave her a half-stern, half-pleading look that she knew couldn't be questioned.  After nodding in understanding, she was released.  He wasted no time in turning back to the doorway.

In spite of herself, Devon arched her brows in interest as her father started clicking his tongue.  He had leaned forward slightly, one fist on the ground to brace his hunched-down body and his expression open, reassuring.

"It's okay, fella," he coaxed gently.  "It's all right.  We're not gonna hurt ya."

Peering around into the shed, to where Mr. Vega's head was tilted, she finally discerned a dark form in the gloom.  It was in the far corner, huddled up, its outline heaving with each breath.  Mr. Vega continued his encouragements until it seemed to respond with a sudden yet non-threatening stir.  Heartened at this, he leaned forward a bit more, making a welcoming gesture with his free hand.

"That's it.  Come on now, little fella…"

It was then, though, that they realized it WASN'T a little fellow at all.  The form visibly uncurled into something longer, something _much_ larger than either of them had expected.  Devon stepped back, mouth agape, her sense of horror only compounded by a brief, white glint from within the shed.  Could that have been…_teeth_?

Her father's face had gone pale, completely staggered.  A moment's recovery peeled the look away, though, now replaced by a grim purposefulness.  Slowly, he reached into one pants pocket and slipped out something, his intense but faintly reluctant gaze hidden from Devon as she watched a blade flick out between his fingers.  She hadn't the faintest why, but she had a prickling, nagging feeling that _wasn't_ the best thing to do right then…

Mr. Vega held the knife away from the opening, trying to hide it from their "visitor" as long as possible.  "Easy there, pops," he said.  "Easy…"

The thing, however, seemed aware that something else was going on.  It growled at the two in a tone Devon had never heard before—at least from an animal—and bared its many gleaming teeth.  Mr. Vega seemed to take the hint, for he allowed the pocketknife to come into plain view, the blade flashing with moonlight.  "Easy, now.  Just come out quietly, and—"

He stopped with a gasp, and Devon felt the blood rush away from her cheeks.  The thing had simply…vanished.  _But how?  Where—?_

That was answered presently.  The knife was wrested out of Mr. Vega's grasp and he looked on in bewildered terror as it hovered before him, a few feet above the ground.  It was tossed aside, and as he watched it sail through the air he suddenly recoiled, a shocked, sick look on his face as he sunk onto his rear.  Devon rushed to help him but her ankles caught and twisted in a bright orange extension cord, which had been lying around loose in front of the shed.  She jerked forward and with a small cry fell hard onto the ground next to him.  Her knees scraped and stinging, she gritted her teeth and squinted upward through askew glasses.

But she saw then _why_ the cord had been taut in the first place.  Apparently, a loop in the cord had caught through one of the invisible thing's legs as it made a break for the block wall that enclosed the backyard.  So when she'd tripped, the floating loop had snapped back, wrenching the thing off the wall and onto the ground with an uncomfortable-sounding _thwack_.  What caught her eye was that upon impact, it had revealed itself for what it really was: some kind of…lizard-creature?  Yes, it had to be!  Scaled and long and purple and…all those _limbs!_

She was so engrossed in what she was seeing that she hadn't noticed her father regaining his feet.  With a grunt he lunged onto the dazed lizard-creature, trying to pin down as many of the legs and whatsits as he could.  It quickly responded with a solid punch on his left cheek, stunning Mr. Vega long enough for the lizard-creature to flip him onto his back, switching the advantage.  The human stared up into the intense, strangely intelligent green eyes as if at a past acquaintance, and _not_ a pleasant one at that.  He strained against the eight limbs that held him down, his own eyes burning with anger as he grappled for the discarded knife—just out of reach by inches.  His opponent spotted this and knocked it farther away with its tail, then shot him a look as if to say, "No trying any funny stuff.  Got it?"  The two began to stare daggers at each other, snarling savagely.

Watching all this and on her feet again, Devon couldn't help but notice how much _this_ fight resembled the one she had been in earlier.  The difference being, of course, that these two seemed to actually know what the heck they were doing.

Meanwhile, a voice in the back of her head screamed at her to DO something, to help her father, but the girl stood petrified by fear.  What could she do, anyway?  She was just a kid—and a scrawny, stringy one at that!  If her _dad_ was having trouble, what kind of a chance did she possibly stand against such a beast?

But the fretful thoughts soon evaporated.  The lizard-creature had busied one of its rear feet with undoing the loop still around its leg, and it now slipped off the loosened cord with a quick shake.  Without further ado, the creature's pigments and form dissolved into the surrounding air and it was gone.  Mr. Vega stared warily at the empty space in front of him for a few seconds before motioning to sit up.  Devon came to his side, offering a hand and pulling him to his feet.

Mr. Vega's gaze was still incensed.  "_That little…_"  He started stalking away, his eyes flicking around the yard.  "Where is it?  Where'd it go?"

Devon tugged at his arm.  "Dad, please no," she said, voice imploring.  "It's gone now, okay?  Just let it go—"

"_No!_"  She stepped back at his tone, watching as he surveyed the area again, heavy breathing shaking him.  "Look!  Over there!" he said, pointing.  He started off in that direction.

Devon gawked after him in confusion.  What was he talking about?  This thing could become _invisible_, for Pete's sake!  But upon closer inspection, she realized there _was_ something to be seen…just barely.  The wrought iron fence surrounding the pool jittered and swayed, and on top she could just make out the shape of something that didn't quite match the scenery.  It was almost like looking through a giant lens—transparent, but causing a faint distortion between what was seen through it and everything else.  Her father was following this outline, which by now had reached the fence's end and leapt onto the block wall inside the pool area.  Mr. Vega swung the gate open and ran with all haste to the wall.

"Oh, no you don't!" he called after it, reaching his arms out.  By some lucky chance he actually grabbed hold of something and yanked.  The lizard-creature shifted into view again, looking back with marked astonishment at the man who now had a firm grip on its tail.  In the end, though, the situation proved mere child's play: with an annoyed look, it swung the tail out of his hands then—for good measure—struck in an uppercut motion with a thicker section of tail (not quite the whip end) right under the chin.  This sent the man staggering backward, propelling him so he couldn't stop himself before slipping on the pool's ledge and falling in, spraying sheets and droplets of water into the night air.

Devon came to the fence and gripped the bars, watching the water as her father's head broke surface.  He sputtered and sloshed about—all in once piece, it seemed.  She then trained her wide eyes on the lizard-creature, who presently ascended the wooden power pole at the wall's back end, using the metal rungs.  The entire scene had sparked peculiar but welcome eagerness in her: this thing had defeated her father—_twice_—and was probably capable of so many other remarkable things she couldn't even imagine, even alongside the ability to become invisible.  But what blew her away most was the strong, persistent feeling that it could've done a lot worse to Mr. Vega if it had wanted.  In fact, it very well could've _destroyed_ him in the heat of the moment.

_…So then why didn't it?_

She frowned at the question, then glanced up to see that the lizard-creature had made it to the top.  It leaned out a moment as it took in the view and then hugged its body against the pole, its thin chest heaving and head fronds slack.  Any sense of exhaustion on its part hadn't dawned on her till then, and it was only growing more apparent with each passing second—

_Hiiissssssss._

Her head whipped around along with the creature's to something near the transformer.  A disheveled ball of fur was balanced on the wire, staring back with beady eyes and coiling a rat-like tail in hostility.  The lizard-creature seemed thunderstruck by this imp's nerve, and so snarled back and bared its teeth when the possum started up its hissing again.  The two might've stayed that way for a long while and left it at that if the possum hadn't suddenly gotten a fancy, IMMENSELY stupid idea in its tiny brain.  With a bizarre, bark-like noise, it sprung off the wire onto the lizard-creature's face, showing its yellow teeth and trying to bite at the fronds while clawing away at scaly skin.  The creature jerked in surprise at this and loosened several rungs out of their holes, so that it and the possum began to fall towards the humming transformer—

"NO!"

Devon turned her head away, covering her eyes as a jarring, electric pulse infected the air.  Cold nausea swept over her—Why did she even _care_?  The very idea of what'd just happened was sickening, yes, but what exactly had possessed her to cry out like that she didn't know.  Once the noise had died, she heard a rustling as something heavy fell through the orange tree near the power pole, and then a dull _thud_ as it struck cement.  For a few seconds she refused to look, for fear of what she'd see and the nightmares the sight might give her.

Then, hesitantly, she lowered her hands.

Through the bars she could see a long, dark form sprawled out beneath the orange tree, deathly still.  Devon passed through the open gate and stopped just short of being at an uncomfortable proximity, then cocked her head at the motionless body, her expression touched with sympathy.  Suddenly, the limp fronds perked up ever so slightly, and the lizard-creature let out a weak, strangely human-sounding moan.  The girl's jaw dropped open, the thought again striking her of _How—?_  A singed, burning stench reached her nose and she turned to its source among some overgrown weeds, where a faint trail of smoke emerged between four scabby, upward-turned feet.

_Phew_.

Back under the tree, the lizard-creature was attempting to get up.  It pushed with its uppermost pair of limbs, both shaking under the weight as the creature clenched its lower jaw in dull pain.  Devon had started to edge towards it, eyes blinking inquisitively, when a foot came down on the creature's upper back.  It exhaled sharply then looked to see its recent human rival, sopping wet but back with a vengeance.  Resentful, it half-bared its teeth and growled as Mr. Vega twisted back its four upper limbs and held the thin wrists together, and then sat on the creature's lower half and straddled his legs so as to keep the other four from trying any funny business.  It twisted and squirmed a bit in protest, but it was too winded to give much of a struggle—or at least one the human couldn't handle.

"Dev, get the knife, will ya?" her father instructed.

She obeyed wordlessly, walking to where the pocketknife had been slid near the fence.  She reached an arm between the cool bars and closed her hand around it, pulling back and briefly eyeing the blade before standing up.  _This is wrong somehow_, she thought.  But what else could be done?  After all, this thing _had_ attacked her father, and was obviously dangerous.  So they couldn't simply let it run loose—not after all it'd done.  Devon tried to comfort herself with this reasoning as she returned to the tree and the two underneath it.

Mr. Vega looked up as she approached.  "Good.  Now just hold it out in front of 'im."

A little skeptical at this, she stretched the armed hand to it, blade pointing near the head/neck area.  The creature's stark green eyes narrowed at her and then it yelped as the man pulled on its fronds with his free hand, the other still binding the four wrists.  He then clamped his fingers around its throat, forcing its head to turn towards him as it gasped for breath.  Mr. Vega's eyes bore into its own, his face grimacing in controlled fury.  "Let's get one thing straight," he hissed between his teeth.  "No one—_ever_—threatens my family or anything that's worth fighting for."  He paused, then sneered the last: "Especially a miserable little worm like _you_."

Devon winced internally at the last word's contempt.  But it was what happened next that floored her.

Scowling and its fronds raised, the lizard-creature shot back at the man hoarsely.  "_I am no worm_."

Devon nearly dropped the knife, her face ashen and flabbergasted.  This thing could _TALK?!_

In shock, Mr. Vega released his chokehold around its neck and the creature coughed and wheezed, recovering its breath.  The fit was short, and it soon turned back to the man with its own share of contempt.  "Not so high-and-mighty now, huh?" it taunted.  "And you really disappointed me with the whole 'knife' thing; I was starting to hope for good things back there before you went all Errol Flynn.  But hey—who was _I_ to expect that much from someone so utterly dense?"  It paused, glancing at and regarding Devon before going on.  "So just who _is_ the coward here, pal?  But if that's your angle anyway and you're gonna let Runt Jr. do your dirty work, then it's fine by me.  I'm obviously in no position to argue."  The creature craned back its neck, exposing its throat and giving the girl a lopsided, challenging look.

"Go ahead, kid," it said.  "Maybe _you'll_ have a sense of compassion about it and make it quick."

Torn and nerve-racked, Devon looked to the blade, then at the creature again.  Its ribcage clearly pressed against skin with each intake of breath, and a distinctive, slanting scar running from its left eye to near its upper lip seemed fairly fresh.  Then with sudden, rising defiance, she chucked the knife into the pool and straightened with tightened lips—showing the creature that she hadn't done so out of fear.  Upon seeing this, it lowered its head and gazed at her in baffled but subtly appreciative wonder.

_ARRRROOO-ROOO-ROOO-ROO!_

The humans turned to see Darby on the other side of the fence, barking wildly at their intruder from behind the bars.  Recognizing the opportunity, the lizard-creature curled its tail and hooked it onto Mr. Vega's collar, yanking him backwards and off balance.  It easily slipped from beneath the fallen human and slithered on all eights a short distance before blending out of sight.  Darby whimpered, gave one last uneasy bark, then trotted away.

Devon quirked an eyebrow at the irony of what'd just happened.  _So…we forgot about the dog_ and _the tail.  Fancy that._

She felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to see her father.  His hazel eyes were large and sad, veiled with shame.

"I'm a Class-A screw-up," he muttered miserably.

Devon frowned at his sincerity.  She started rubbing her arms, sucking in her lips.  "You're not, Dad," she said quietly.  "You just…didn't know any better."

"But I _should've_, Dev," he insisted bitterly.  He gritted his teeth, then with a sigh ran a hand over his face and through his damp hair.  "In any case, I jumped the gun back there and now I've made a royal mess of things."

Devon blinked up at him.  "So, what I did with the knife and all's okay with you?"

After regarding her a moment, Mr. Vega allowed a faint smile.  "It's more than okay," he told her, brushing aside her bangs affectionately.  He squinted up at the night sky, suddenly thoughtful.  "One thing we know for sure now, though," he stated.  "We're on to something a heck of a lot bigger than ourselves."

"I'd say so," a voice commented.

The two whirled about to face Mrs. Vega, who stood inside the fence gate and did _not_ look very pleased at all.

Mr. Vega shot her a nervous smile.  "So, eh…how long've you been standing there, hon?"

His wife crossed her arms in front of her chest.  "Long enough," she said simply, leaning against the fence.  Her gaze was equal parts amused and infuriated.

Looking at his daughter, Mr. Vega's nervousness infected his laughter.  "Heh heh…looks like the jig is up."

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In terms of voice talents for original characters, I make the same request here as the last time.  And don't forget to drop off a review on your way out!~_^


	3. Deliberations

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HOMECOMING

By Light Rises 

**Author's Note****:** As the title suggests, this new segment is mostly talk.  But it'll answer a couple questions raised by the previous chapter and set into motion the one thing that'll make the rest of this story possible.  I'm about 99.9% sure this is the only chapter not graced by the presence of an actual monster—which is probably one reason why I tried to make it relatively short.^_^

A Happy Valentine's Day to everyone!  And thanks for the reviews!

P.S. – This chappie takes place later on in the night of Friday, April 11, 2003.

**Disclaimer****:** Again, I own everything here except a certain, beloved lizard monster.*sighs*

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Chapter 2 - Deliberations

"…So, exactly _when_ were you guys planning on telling me about our little 'visitor'?"

The other two Vegas were settled at the kitchen table as Mrs. Vega approached them with this question.  Her spirits weren't any better from earlier; it'd taken a half-hour to persuade curious neighbors that all the commotion was simply over a Darby/cat problem.  And just now, she'd escorted an animal control officer out the door with the dead possum bagged and ready to be disposed of.  At least father and daughter could take comfort in that she hadn't, too, asked for the guy's services regarding a certain, intelligent lizard-creature running loose in the neighborhood.

At least, not yet.

Mr. Vega sighed at the question, rubbing one temple with his fingertips.  He'd exchanged his soaked clothes for a white bathrobe and had used a towel—now damp and discarded on the table—to dry his hair.  "I was kinda hoping never," he replied honestly, his tone gentle.  "I guess I'd figured this whole thing would just blow over—that he'd be mine and Dev's cool secret for awhile and that'd be the end of it."

Mrs. Vega pursed her lips.  "'He'?"

"Of course."  Mr. Vega turned to her with a wry smile.  "What?  You think someone who talks like _that_ is a girl?  I don't think so."

Devon started to giggle but was stopped by a look from her mother.  Taking a breath, the woman continued.

"Fine.  If the situation were different, I wouldn't expect any less from you two.  But for pity's sake, Seth—that thing was _dangerous_.  You could've gotten yourself killed!  And what about Devon?  She's only a girl, and who knows what might've happened to her with that beast creeping around."

Mr. Vega furrowed his brows, looking at the table.  "Listen to me," he said, voice even.  "The only reason he attacked me—did anything at all—was because he felt threatened.  I pulled the knife and he acted out of self-defense, so if there's anyone to blame it's _me_ for jumping the gun in thinking he was a danger to us in the first place."  He paused, then clenching his fists on the table he looked at his wife.  "I take full responsibility for what happened out there," he stated.  "So there's no way I'm letting you pin it on him."

Mrs. Vega frowned.  "I wasn't saying what happened was i—his fault," she said.  "Just that you were loco for treating his hanging around the neighborhood like a field trip.  If you knew he was dangerous before tonight—"

"But I _didn't_ and he's _not_," said Mr. Vega, sounding exasperated.  "Sure, maybe I got the impression of his being no dummy, but I honestly didn't think he was a big deal 'til I saw those chompers and his size."  He suddenly sighed.  "And _that's_ where I goofed—big time."

Devon watched as understanding seemed to dawn on her mother.  Sitting next to him, Mrs. Vega clasped her hands and gave him a tender look.  "Please tell me, and be honest," she said.  "Even if you _had_ an idea of his not being dangerous, could you've reacted differently to seeing those things?"

After a moment, Mr. Vega shook his head sadly.  "No, I don't think so," he admitted.  "I guess in the back of my head, I knew I couldn't take any chances…especially with Devon there.  But it _still_ kills me that I did all those things to him.  Even if I didn't know any better, I just can't shake the feeling that what I did was…was…"

"Wrong?" Devon filled in.

He looked to his daughter, his gaze touched with marvel as he nodded.  "Yeah.  Like I should've known from the start the guy had sense."

Silence overcame them.  Each Vega was lost in his or her thoughts, their imaginations and fears agitated.  At length, Mrs. Vega grimaced and brought a hand to her chin.

"We shouldn't be alone on this," she said.  "Someone else needs to be brought in—this cross-species stuff isn't our area, we all know that.  So we can't just let him go—"

"Oh, yes we can," Mr. Vega interjected.  "We can't and we're _not_ bringing the authorities into this.  He's not bothering anyone, Vick—he's just scraping by, keeping to the shadows—_laying low_.  If he doesn't want the limelight, then who are we to intrude on his secrecy?"

"And what about wacko scientists?" Devon added.  "You've seen all those sci-fi movies and TV shows; there are guys out there who'd _kill _to get a hold of something like him.  And too many of 'em wouldn't think twice about slicing him open to figure out what makes him so smart."  She gulped, realizing how tense her muscles had become, then settled back in her chair.  She shuddered a little with both nerves and at the idea she'd brought up.

Mrs. Vega held her hands out.  "But what _else _are we supposed to do?" she said helplessly.  "Just because that thing isn't dangerous doesn't mean he won't cause trouble again, like tonight."  With a sigh, she covered her face with her hands, letting strands of raven black hair fall in front before she looked up again.  "I'm sorry, but it's not our place to leave 'well enough' alone here," she said decisively.  Her eyes suddenly grew soft.  "Besides…there just _has _to be someone out there, some enlightened scientist or activist or something who'll protect him…"

Mr. Vega stood up.  "It's no good!" he growled.  "That's _not _how the world works, Vick, and there's no way on God's green earth I'm letting you go through with this!"

His wife narrowed her eyes and stood up alongside him, not about to be dominated.  Devon had never seen such a determined air about her mother before.  Actually, today ALONEshe was learning a lot about her for the first time.

"But we—!" Mrs. Vega started.

Mr. Vega brought a finger to her lips.  "Hold on a sec," he told her quietly, his eyes shut as he thought a moment.  He then moved to a drawer adjacent to the kitchen sink, opening it and making clinking and clattering noises as he pushed aside utensils and other objects.  He soon came up with what he was looking for and returned to the table grasping a small filet knife.  Holding an index finger out, he grazed the blade against its tip just enough to make a dot of blood peep through.  The two ladies gawked at him as if he'd just gone off his rocker, exchanging glances that seemed mutually hopeful of there being a method to his madness.

His face straight, Mr. Vega showed them the punctured fingertip as an illustration.  "Look: if I nick my finger while nailing in a board out front, and I bleed green instead of red, what's gonna be the reaction of the next guy who sees me?  Can you really see him thinking, 'Gee, this is weird, but he isn't bothering anybody, so I'll just leave 'im alone'?  _I_ can't; folks are afraid of what they don't understand, and they can't understand someone with green blood because it doesn't _fit_."  His eyes suddenly grew wide with urgency.  "Don't you see?  That guy will point me out and say, 'Oh my Lord, he's—'"  Mr. Vega stopped, as if choking on the next words.  His throat worked a moment before he could say the rest, in a much softer voice.  "'He's different.'"

He sagged into his chair, his eyes sad and faraway all over again.  Slowly, Mrs. Vega placed her hands on his shoulders, bending so that her face was next to his.  She blinked at him with a compassionate, knowing look.

"Brune?" she asked.

He took a moment in nodding.  "Yeah," he whispered back.  He allowed her nose to nuzzle against his cheek, closing his eyes at the gentle touch.

Devon had swallowed hard at the mention of Brune.  Oh, yes, the name was familiar to her: she'd heard the stories of the thickset, cruel-mouthed student who started shooting those dark looks at her father once the whole Bronx lot was out of high school.  From all Mr. Vega could ever tell, he had gained Brune's attention for being unusually quiet and withdrawn from the normal crowd at school, and then garnered his cold hatred for showing too much of an influence from Irish blood under the obvious Latino heritage.  Though a fierce, stubborn loner by habit, Brune could call together a gang in a pinch, and had done just so to corner the young Mr. Vega and his best friend Jax in an alley one night.  His crew members had taken turns thrashing and beating the two senseless…or at least trying to, since Seth and Jax were hardly ready to take this lying down.  The whole scene was supposed to be to Brune's enjoyment, and it was only when he'd realized the fun might be spoiled that he gathered the nerve to step in on the action himself.  But, oh, one couldn't be _too_ cautious…which was why he came up behind the strongest of the two—Seth—with a knife, locking the guy's neck to his chest with a forearm and then sliding the blade across his throat in a quick, uncommitted stroke before dashing off with everyone else (or at least those left standing) at the on-coming blare of police sirens.  Perhaps it was only _because_ the cut was made in haste that her father lived.  Even so, Mr. Vega had always said the worst part wasn't the pain, but rather the pure loathing he caught a glimpse of before sinking into unconsciousness…of those intense green eyes glaring back…

Then it dawned on her.

"_The eyes!_" she blurted.  Her parents' baffled expressions prompted Devon to elaborate.  "Dad, that funny look you gave the creature when he had you on your back, and why you went after him—I get it now!  His eyes reminded you of _Brune's!_"

The couple exchanged glances, then drawing a hand to his chin, Mr. Vega marveled at his daughter a second time.  "You just about touched it, there," he said, his bittersweet smile brief.  "When he was still in the shed—still an animal, far as I could tell—I wasn't thinking much beyond shooing 'im away from the house, or attacking if necessary.  But when I was held down and looked up at those eyes, something in me just…_snapped_."  He started rubbing the back of his neck.  "I guess what ended up happening was that I started giving _him_ what I've been meaning to give Brune all these years."

"So it's when he started talking that you changed your mind?" Mrs. Vega asked.

Her husband shook his head.  "Not so much that he talked as what he _said_," he replied, sighing.  "He'd asked who the 'real' coward was between us two, and hearing that just about made my blood freeze.  The chokehold, the way I'd called him a 'worm'—for a guy who already had the upper hand, it was just too much…"  He looked up, shame flooding his eyes.  "And I realized _I_ was the one like Brune.  Not him."

Devon crossed her arms on the table and laid her head on top.  Her mind wrestled with the idea of her father turning into—even if just for a few moments—the one person he'd always tried to avoid becoming.  But her mother's expression was still kind, and her new smile sympathetic.

"Seth," she began, "you need to stop kicking yourself for what happened out there.  What's done is done; now we've got to live out the aftermath as best we can—knowing better, I'd hope."  Gently, she brought a hand under Mr. Vega's chin and turned his face to hers.  "Sometimes, good people make bad mistakes," she said.  "And those mistakes alone don't make you a Brune.  So be sorry about it, and then let it go."

He averted his eyes for a few seconds, then gave her a short, playful snort.  "You can be a _real_ cornball, ya know that?" he said, half-chuckling.

Mrs. Vega grinned.  "Yeah.  But that doesn't mean all that stuff isn't true, does it?"

He let out a laugh—a genuine one.  "You've got me there," he answered.  After a moment, he looked up at her with a little smile.  "So…does all this 'letting go' business mean you're gonna keep this quiet after all?"

Her cheerful expression fell, and worry lined her otherwise smooth forehead.  "I…I just don't know," she stammered doubtfully, shaking her head.  Her eyes locked back into his.  "Are you sure this is the best thing to do?  To just let him go?"

Mr. Vega gave her a determined look.  "I know it is," he replied, standing up.  "He's been through a lot, Vick.  There's no point in giving him more grief and adding another scar to the others."

Devon started at the word "others".  "Wait a minute," she interrupted, addressing her father.  "You mean he _didn't_ just have the one scar on his head?"

Mr. Vega shook his head.  "Oh no.  There were others—only faded.  The one you saw stood out because it was newer, from only a few months ago maybe, though you shouldn't quote me on that.  The others"—he traced a couple lines on his neck and several longer ones along his left side—"are at least years old, far as I can tell.  But they're pretty conspicuous close-up."

Devon's eyes widened.  _Years?_  Years spent around people without getting caught?  Or somewhere else altogether?  Whatever the case, this guy's history sounded _tons_ more interesting than anything the reliably dull Edgewood could offer—especially to someone who'd never felt welcome around the place, anyway.

Mrs. Vega let out a resigned sigh.  "So there's no changing your mind, huh?" she asked her husband.

"No."  Gingerly, he took her hands into his.  "Please…_please_ trust me on this."

She looked into his pleading eyes, then to the scar on his neck.  She ran her fingers along it, thoughtfully, before turning to him again.  "All right," she said, giving him a gentle kiss on the lips.  "I trust your judgment."

The two stood holding each other for several more moments before breaking off.  All that was left was one last, obvious question.

"So what now?" Devon asked.

Mr. Vega's determined look returned.  "Nothing," he said, addressing them both.  "We tell no one about him—not even Alex and Morgan—and we'll stick with the story Mom came up with for what took place tonight.  If this lizard guy's as smart as we think he is, and bent on _not_ getting caught, he'll hightail it out of here as soon as possible.  As far as everyone else is concerned, though, none of this ever happened.  Understood?"

They nodded, then Mrs. Vega was struck with an inspired look.  She moved to the refrigerator and peered in, scrounging through its contents.

"Er, Mom…what're you doing?" Devon said, puzzled.

The woman popped up from behind the open fridge door, holding a plastic container.  "Well, you saw how the poor thing was all skin-and-bones, and we've got leftovers…"  She trailed off as she dipped back inside, then with a smaller container stacked on top of the first, she kicked the door shut as she briskly approached the kitchen counter.  "I mean, it can't do any harm to give him something for the road."

Mr. Vega observed her doubtfully.  "I dunno…"

She stopped preparing the food.  "I know, Seth," she said, turning to him.  "But it won't feel right if I don't, not after how close I came to causing him a heap of trouble."  She looked at him imploringly.  "Please.  I owe him this."

Reluctant but pleased nonetheless, he nodded.  "I'll allow it.  But we can't risk any more contact afterwards."

Something cold settled in Devon's stomach.  _No more contact?_  She rose and rushed to her father.

"Dad, aren't we gonna, well, at least _introduce_ ourselves or something?"

Mr. Vega sighed, his gaze sad with understanding.  "I know what you're thinking," he told her, "but we can't do it, Sweets.  It'd be wrong of us to take the chance of keeping 'im here too long and letting someone else find out about him."  He caressed her cheek.  "It's more for his sake than ours.  You can understand that, right?"

Devon looked down, biting her lip hard enough to draw blood…because she _didn't_ understand.  What about something BIG happening around here?  About something actually going RIGHT for once?  He…he couldn't just let this go!  All this intelligent lizard-creature business meant something to him too, right?  So then why was he giving up on it?  Maybe…maybe he just wasn't _trying_ hard enough.

So she told him so.

"But there's gotta be a way!  We just have to think—"

"Dev, _no_," he enforced.  "We've done enough to mess with _his_ life….So we'd be better off just going back to our own."

His voice lost its sternness as he finished, and she saw a glimmer of resigned sorrow as he turned away to help Mrs. Vega with the food.  Devon felt a brief pang of shame, and then of anger as she felt the best thing that had ever happened to them both—and maybe even to her mother, too—slip out of their grasps.  Risks always got in the way…that is, if something else hadn't done so first.

_Life just isn't fair._

Suddenly, that defiance from earlier rose up in her again.  Telling her, like the last time, that she had a choice.

_Well, then I say it's only unfair if I make it out that way_.  Even as she thought it, she was trying to stifle the old, familiar fear that wanted to keep her safe and realistic, from doing anything outside her comfort zone.  But the defiance was just strong enough to edge out in the end.

_I won't let this go_, she decided._  Not if I can help it._

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As always, reviews are much appreciated; it lets me know y'all are still reading this.~_^  Till next time…


	4. So Many Questions…

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HOMECOMING

By Light Rises 

**Author's Note****:** As always, _mucho mahalo_ for all the reviews!  It's good to know this story's heading in the right direction, and I'm depending on you guys to make sure I stay on track.~_^  So, without further ado (except for that pesky disclaimer), on to the next chappie!

**Disclaimer****:** Er…how about this, folks?  Whenever an original character of significant importance is introduced, I'll mention him or her up here.  Otherwise, you can safely presume (unless I've stated differently in a previous disclaimer) that just about everything else I'm using in this story is copyrighted to Disney/PIXAR.  Okay?  Good.^_^

**Time****:** This takes place very early on Sunday, April 13, 2003.

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Chapter 3 – So Many Questions…

Darkness again.  A streetlight glowed yellow, shedding its dull radiance onto the sidewalk and on a chain link fence that enclosed the beginnings of a grassy field.  Suddenly, the links jittered as something a short distance away from the light clung to the fence.  Feeling the latticework of metal sway under her weight, Devon looked to the sidewalk below and behind her with a gulp before trying to scramble the rest of the way up and over.  The fact that she was carrying a popcorn bag between her teeth wasn't helping much, either; rather, it focused her thoughts more on how ridiculous she must look than on _why_ she'd come here in the first place.

The girl sighed through clenched teeth.  Well, she _wouldn't_ have had to be in this spot if it weren't for Edgewood Junior High's overly-cautious janitor.  Usually, when the school itself was closed, its field was left open to folks who wanted to have picnics and games and other park-type junk, like on Friday afternoon.  This time, though, Devon had found the gate to the field locked and bound shut by chain and padlock.  Needless to say, being forced to _climb_ the fence to get into school grounds made her feel more like a criminal than someone who was reasonably curious about something.  But the real irony was in how she now had to enter—forcibly!—the one place she despised most in order to find out more regarding the one thing that, at least in her eyes, could change her luck for good.

At the top, Devon straddled a couple seconds before attempting to bring the other leg over.  Her eyes squeezed shut at the thought of catching the pant leg on a wire, but the maneuver was completed without a hitch and she forced herself to relax a little.  The other side—only the descending left, the easy part!  She had progressed downward several feet when one of the few, not-so-nice cats that had the run of the neighborhood drew close to her, watching from the grass below.  Devon hadn't realized how awkward and on edge she actually felt; so when the cat let out a hissing yowl, she freaked and let go with a small shriek.  She slipped out of her footholds and fell the rest of the way, spooking the cat into the shadows as her back hit the ground.  After several motionless moments, she sat up sluggishly, placing a hand on her chest as she heaved for breath.  Her winded state wasn't so much from the fall as from the actual effort of climbing; she may have been skinny as a rail, but she was out of shape to the same extreme.

_Heh.  Even_ more _ironic_, she thought.  _My luck goes down the toilet before it turns around.  _Devon hooked her fingers into the fence wire, pulling herself to her feet.  _Boy, it'd _better_ turn around…_

Her eyes caught something and she straightened.  An old tree stood before Devon, moonlight highlighting the numerous initials gouged into its bark.  The girl lowered her gaze to a worn spot at the tree's base—where she'd spent many a lunch alone—and she felt the need for a silent moment, as if this were a place of reverence that had to be recognized.  When she looked up again, she scanned the section of school complex near the tree and stopped at a particular window.  Scooping up the dropped popcorn bag, she hurried to it and realized what she'd seen: a slip of plastic wedged between window and windowsill.

Devon placed a hand on her hip.  _Huh.  He must've switched windows since this morning._  Delicately (or at least trying to be delicate), she shimmied out the plastic and held the loosened window open a crack as she examined the slip.  To her amusement, it turned out to be one-half of a credit card that wasn't due to expire for three years.

_I wonder if he got the joke, too?_  She managed a smile at the thought and tossed the half-card aside.  Sucking in her lips, Devon pulled the window up and out with a moaning creak, then with less difficulty than she'd anticipated she slipped through the low opening into the building—for once very much in debt to her thin figure.

Inside, she blinked as her eyes adjusted to the dimness and she soon recognized what she'd stepped in as a classroom.  And more than just that—Mrs. Schwartz' biology room, with all the old posters, diagrams, and models Devon had once grown accustomed to seeing.  She got caught up in the memories, her fingers skimming across desktops as she walked the first row.  The reverie vanished, though, when she eyed several large, fluid-filled specimen jars on a counter by the door.  The jars themselves didn't bug her, but rather the ideas _he_ might've gotten about humans upon seeing these.

_You think too much, Dev_, she chided herself.  _Or maybe not enough, since you forgot to bring a STUPID FLASHLIGHT!_

Well.  There was no arguing _that_ kind of logic, but it was too late now.  Devon passed through the open classroom door (the reason for which she was sure she knew) into a hallway lined with lockers.  The gray-green of the metal was whitewashed by whatever light the old skylights let in, and her footfalls, though soft, echoed too loudly for comfort as she started down the hall.  Who knew such a place—though dreadful by its own right during the day—could be so spooky in the dark?

"This is crazy," she muttered aloud.  "I'm a bona fide nutcase for even _trying_ this!"  Unconsciously, she started chewing one of the fingernails of her free hand.  _Goodness knows how many laws I'm breaking right now…_

Her other hand, with the popcorn bag, bumped against a hard lump as it hit a side pocket in her coveralls.  Devon stopped and switched the bag to her free hand to dig inside the pocket, finding and pulling out a familiar, round object.

"Hey…how did you get in there?"  She eyed the pocket watch (a fairly modern one), smoothing her thumb over its outer shell as if to polish the metal.  On a whim, she flipped the watch open and observed the time: 4:43.  In the morning.  An entire night's sleep lost to making sure Grandma Lita had turned in after watching all of her late night _telenovelas_.  Then again, this entire operation would've been a "no go" if Devon's parents hadn't decided to spend the rest of the weekend in Laughlin.  Drowsiness taking hold, the girl motioned to yawn when her eyes fell on a small photo inside the watch's lid.  The smiling portrait made her gulp and blink sorrowfully, keeping her stone still until thoughts of the face's owner—and what he might've thought about her current situation—warmed her enough to half-smile in return.

"_You_ wouldn't've thought this was so crazy," she whispered.  Lightly, her finger traced the outline of the picture's head.  "You would've understood…"

THUNK, Thunk, thunk… 

She looked up at the noise.  Some yards in front of her, an empty toilet paper roll entered the hallway, rolling until it bumped against the opposite wall and shuddered to a stop.  Devon hesitated, then snapping the pocket watch shut and putting it away, she started toward the faint moonlight emitting through an open door ahead, where the roll had come from.  Trembling a little as she approached it, she peered inside to see the stalls, sinks, and linoleum tiles of a school restroom.  She started to move inside by keeping to the stalls on her right…only to realize her mistake almost too late.  Devon sidestepped to the left as a stall door—the one that _would've_ swung her way—was thrown open, violently slamming and rebounding with a squeaky wobble.  A second passed before the perpetrator materialized in the open stall, his green eyes wide and glaring with both surprise and sudden irritation.

"You!" he said, taking a step forward.  "What do you think you're _doing_ here?"

Devon didn't answer right away.  Well, he remembered her; that was settled.  But what held her speechless was his upright stance—his weight only carried on the back fours—which she hadn't seen before and which now unnerved her by how it made him seem more…human.  If she _looked_ intimidated, drawing back some as he'd stepped forward, it was only because she was rather overwhelmed by the sight.

"I…"  She searched for the words—What _was_ she doing here?  Getting some answers, she knew.  But there seemed to be more to it, and that extra something was what formed into words first.

"I…wanted to see if you were okay," she said, glancing at him shyly.  "From that fall, I mean."

The lizard-creature's eyes softened at this—out of curiosity, if nothing else.

"Really?" he asked, drooping his eyelids and putting his topmost hands together.  He'd said it rather skeptically.

"Yeah."  Devon averted her eyes before going on.  "A-and I brought you something," she told him, stammering a little as she held out the popcorn bag.  "It's kettle corn.  It's not much, I'm afraid, but it's all I could get in a pinch."

He regarded the girl a moment before taking the bag with his upper right hand, holding it out a short distance as he studied it.  Devon observed in fascination as the upper left hand went to his lower jaw, as if to rub a nonexistent chin, while the pair of arms underneath folded across his underbelly.

The creature snorted.  "Huh.  Over a year in this world and _this_ I've never seen…"  Gingerly, he widened the opening at the top of the bag and took out a kernel, holding it between the round nubs of his fingertips before popping it into his mouth.  He blinked in pleasant surprise.  "Ya know, this isn't half bad," he commented.

Devon resisted the urge to ask him about his first statement; this whole meeting wasn't coming along half-bad, and she wasn't about to ruin it by rushing in with touchy questions.  She gave the creature a weak smile and he snorted lightly in return, seeming distracted as he walked toward the large handicap stall taking up the bathroom's rear, its door long ago torn off the hinges.  Once inside, the creature rose to his hindmost feet and placed his back against the rear wall, adjusting his tail accordingly as he clung to the ceramic tile.  Then in a fluid motion he slid/crawled down until he was in a more humanlike sitting position, upper back against the wall and lower back on the floor.  He tucked up his four legs, crossing them over his lower underbelly as he started sampling more generous portions of the kettle corn.

Still standing where he'd left her, Devon tugged at the opening of one shirtsleeve.  "You wouldn't mind me sitting with you for a little while, would you?" she asked.

The lizard-creature arched an eye ridge at her, and then shrugged indifferently.  "Knock yourself out," he replied between mouthfuls.

With a slight nod, she walked into the stall and hunkered down next to him, sitting Indian style with her legs crossed.  No sooner had she settled against the wall than the lizard-creature began crumpling the emptied popcorn bag.  Devon watched as he casually pitched the paper ball into the wedge-shaped, metal wastebasket next to the toilet—a pretty good distance to shoot from where he was "seated".

"Nice shot," she remarked.

He looked at her and drew back almost imperceptibly, as if he hadn't expected her to sit this close.  "Thanks," he muttered, turning away with a brooding look.

Sensing it would be polite _not_ to stare, Devon looked away too, focusing on some random spot on the floor.  The two sat under the cold glow of moonlight, silent and separate.

For the moment, at least.

"How 'bout we make this productive?"

Devon turned to him with a quizzical expression.  "Huh?"

The creature wasn't looking at her, but rather at the tail curled up in front of him.  "I see it this way, kid," he said, idly fingering the tail's blue tip with a lower hand.  "If you're gonna stick around, we might as well be productive while we're at it and make conversation.  And the first thing _I_ wanna touch on"—he released the tip as he turned her way, eyes narrowed—"is how you tracked me down here."

She suddenly grinned.  "By dumb luck, mostly.  I was just walking along the school this morning when I looked through the fence and noticed something sticking out of a window.  I'd remembered seeing that before; our history teacher, Mr. Freedman, was a loon when it came to fire drills and escape, and since the school windows always get jammed and he didn't wanna be breaking any of 'em in case of a real fire, he started slipping pieces of wood and plastic into the cracks to loosen them up.  Weird looking, really—but it worked.  And since Mr. Freedman retired two years ago, I had to guess _you'd_ made it work for yourself, too."  Devon paused, realizing how much and quickly she'd spoken without a second thought, or even a stutter.  "Now I wonder," she went on, falling more into her timid habits, "why didn't you just, well, pick a lock with your tail to get inside?"

"Urban myth," he replied flatly.  "_That_ only works on abnormally big locks, and you can guess how many of those I've come across."  He eyed her, continuing with a sour inflection, "I'd bet your Dad'd be _real_ thrilled about this 'secret mission' of yours down here."

Devon crossed her arms.  "He's actually very sorry for what happened the other night," she said, becoming defensive.  "But what _else_ was he supposed to think?  I mean it's not like we meet up with intelligent lizard beasts on a daily basis."

The creature's face contorted in sudden fury.  "You know, it's that kind of thing that kills me—_really_ irks me—about you humans!" he snapped.  "Talk's just about the only thing that convinces you of intelligence, and even _that's_ amounted to nothing for me.  And why?  Because no matter when or where or WHY I'm opening my mouth, it's almost never done me a lick of good!  _Hardly a single lick._"

He stopped, visibly tense and riled up.  Water dripped somewhere in the bathroom, echoing.  The deep hurt that had crept into the creature's voice now permeated his emerald eyes.

The next came out softer, though no less critical.  "Do you have any idea what that feels like?"

Devon grimaced in shame, remembering the tree outside—_her_ tree—and how her times there had a familiar relationship with his present bitterness.

"I guess not well enough," she answered.  Her voice was hushed, and she couldn't look at him anymore as she folded her legs against her chest, tightly wrapping her arms around them.  She rested her chin on her knees and stared downward, at the cold floor near her feet.

"I'm sorry," she murmured.  "We're all sorry.  We should've known better…it wasn't fair to you and we're really sorry for all the trouble."  She sighed, halfheartedly blowing at the bangs in her eyes.  "It was the stupidest thing in the world."

Upon hearing this, the lizard-creature dropped his accusing gaze, now puzzling over this awkward little human girl with the same expression of wonder he'd made when she threw the pocketknife into the pool.  He leaned toward her, studying her with softened eyes before placing a tentative upper hand on her shoulder.  Devon looked up at the touch, not expecting something like that at all.

"Actually, I can do you guys one worse in the 'stupid' category," he said, rather sedately.

She blinked at him.  "How's that?"

"Hoo, boy…"  He leaned back against the wall, his fronds faintly straightening as he became thoughtful.   "Awhile back, I found myself in some crazy woman's trailer home in the Atchafalaya Basin," he began, lapsing into a Southern twang and then catching himself before continuing.  "Ahem.  Well, her equally dim-witted kid spotted me and mistook me for some gator, so she started whacking me over the head with a shovel—of all things—'til I dropped down senseless.  She was jabbering about 'startin' up the pot for jambalaya' as I blacked out…"  He suddenly chuckled.  "I guess those yokels figured I was too rich for their blood, after all."

Devon gaped at him—at this eight-limbed, purple and blue, green-eyed lizard-creature with pink-tipped fronds.  "A 'gator'?  _They thought you were a_ _gator?_"

He nodded curtly.  "Yep."

She turned away with a slightly disgusted look.  "You're right: that _is_ pretty stupid," she said, almost spitting out the words.  Then she remembered something and looked back at him.  "So, is it from the shovel you got the—?"

"What, this?" he asked, pointing to the slanting scar on his head.  "Yeah.  It took long enough to heal up, and every now and then it still bugs the heck outta me.  Kinda like a tension headache."

Devon nodded, her expression momentarily blank as another thing came to mind.  "By the way, where _is_ the Atcha-whatchamacallit Basin?"

He was very nonchalant: "Louisiana."

"LOUISIANA?!"  She nearly stood up; it hadn't clicked with her until now that coming such a distance was what he'd been implying all along.  "But how did you—?" she started.

The creature put up a stopping hand. "It's a long, sordid story—_not_ something you wanna hear about, believe me."

Devon sucked in her lips, then nodded in obedience.  She'd sensed the warning tone in his voice and had understood, as she remembered his other scars, that she'd stepped into rather sensitive territory for him.  So she tried to lighten the mood with a smile—and a change in subject.

"Ya know, I don't believe we've been properly introduced."  Deliberating a moment, she extended a hand to him.  "I'm Devon Vega.  I can suppose you have a name too, right?"

The creature looked to her hand, then up at her, as if trying to determine whether the gesture was sincere.  And then, with just a hint of a smirk, he took the human hand into his own three-fingered, upper right.

"Yeah, I do," he replied.  "And that'd be Randall.  Randall Boggs."

Devon looked him over in quiet awe as they shook hands.  "Randall…" she repeated, softly.  She wasn't quite expecting a name along those lines, but it suited him somehow.  _Jonah…oh, you would've _loved_ this!_ she thought yearningly, remembering the photo in her pocket watch.  But he couldn't enjoy it, of course—not now or ever.  And there really was no one else (besides her father) that she'd want to have here, experiencing this wonder with her.  No; too many people would see dollar signs or a reason to panic in this Randall Boggs—all a natural default of being TOO different for the normal majority to swallow.

She let out a mental sigh.  Her father was right: this guy was better off getting away from people and potential attention as soon as possible.  So there was no point in keeping him here any longer than advisable—even if life in Edgewood was destined to become crummy and dreary again.

Abruptly, Devon stood up.  "Well, I shouldn't be keeping you here, so it's best that I just, eh, shove off."  She grinned at her pathetic, clumsy phrasing, then started toward the door.

Randall promptly unfolded his legs.  "Whoa, whoa, wait a minute," he said, motioning to roll onto his feet.  "Who said I was going _anywhere?_"

That stopped Devon.  Slowly, the girl turned to look at him.  "I just thought…well, it's really not safe around here anymore—for you, that is.  At least that's what I figured."

Now standing, Randall sighed and half-rolled his eyes as he folded both pairs of arms.  "Look kid, that's very noble and all, but I don't need the help," he said, a moody tenseness creeping into his voice.  "I can watch out for myself just fine."

Devon shook her head.  "You don't understand.  Edgewood's not safe—it wants things normal, more badly than most places.  People here can't handle something like you without doing some awfully stupid stuff first—"

"I don't understand _that_ by now?" he interrupted, suddenly furious.  "Of course this place is bad!  I've crawled through dozens of lousy little Edgewoods in my time, and you're nuts if you think I'd stay here a day longer than I need to!"

Devon did a double take; there was something about the way he'd said _than I need to_ that struck her as "off".

"What do you mean by that?" she asked him, faintly suspicious.

Randall's fronds rose in agitation.  "None of your business!" he snapped.  "Didn't you say you were gonna 'shove off', anyway?"

"But you're _stuck_ here," she realized, stepping toward him.  "You can't go because you've got something to do, but what—"

"I already told you: it's _none of your business_."  He seemed more frustrated than angry now.  "Just trust that we'll both be happier if you don't get involved, okay?  Now 'bye!"  He started to help Devon out by literally pushing her toward the door.

"Hey, wait!  Stop it!" she protested, digging her heels into the floor.  "It's not fair—I don't _want_ out yet!  Hey!"

Randall glowered at her.  "What?  So now you _don't_ wanna leave?  Fine."  He backed off, putting on a sour expression as he turned his tail to her.  "Pffft.  Women."

Devon only answered by sticking out her tongue at his back.  With a cross snort, she took off her askew glasses to wipe them clean, only to make things worse by leaving a smeary mess on the lenses.  Sighing at more than just her handiwork, she turned her gaze back toward Randall.

"Look, I'm sorry if it feels like I'm prying," she said, temper considerably cooled.  "And I'll back off if that's what you really want.  Does that sound okay?"

No response.  He simply stood stock-still, like he'd rather have nothing to do with her.

A scowl creased Devon's brows.  "Sheesh, I _told_ you I was sorry!  What else do you want me—?"

She was cut off by Randall's shushing.  "Shhh!  No no, it's not that," he told her, keeping his voice low.  "Something's wrong."

Staring at him for a moment, she replaced her glasses and came up to his side.  "What is it?"

"I don't know," he whispered, shaking his head almost irritably.  "Just listen."

Her ears strained for sound and picked up nothing out of the ordinary.  But there obviously was _something_; a "nothing" wouldn't have prompted such an expression of deep focus on Randall's part, nor the present stiffness of his fronds.  Then she heard it…a very faint, faraway droning of an engine, and the sharp screeching of tires as they pealed erratically across the pavement.  It was drawing nearer, and seemed to be coming up the street alongside the school.

Devon's mouth fell open.  "Wha…?" she started.

A weird, jangling crash of metal sounded, the droning closer than ever.  Randall's concentration gave way to widened eyes, his pupils constricting to pinpricks.

"Randall, what—?"

"_Hit the deck!_"

In less than a heartbeat, Devon was on the floor and underneath Randall, with the world crashing all around them as plaster, porcelain, and ceramic crumbled and rained down in chunks and shards.  She shut her eyes and tensed up convulsively, a scream caught in her throat as she covered her head.  Just as quickly as it'd started, though, the chaos quieted to an uneasy silence.  Slowly, Devon lifted her head to look, choking on dust and coughing into the cloudy air around her.  A minute or so passed before the dust had settled enough to see past a few feet, and it was then that Devon ventured to get up.

_Well, nothing's broken_, she concluded, moving her limbs experimentally.  She then started to take in the destruction around her.  The restroom and most of an adjacent classroom were totaled, making for a rather large and gaping ground zero.  There was the hole in the wall, and several curving skid marks trailed in by the vehicle as it'd swerved away from where she and Randall had dropped to the floor.  And lodged into the classroom, of course, was the vehicle itself: a moving truck.

_Wait…where_ is _Randall?_   Devon brought powder-encrusted hands to her head in sudden panic.  In all the confusion, she'd lost track of him.

"Randall?" she called out, stifling a cough.  "Randall?  Are you all right?"

Noises of crumbling plaster answered her.  Nothing else.

"Randall?" she tried again.  She started to move through the debris, squinting as she searched among the piles of rubble.  "Randall…it's okay now; you don't have to disappear, if that's what you're doing.  Rand—"

She tripped over a heavy piece of plaster, giving a cry as she fell forward.  But the impact never came: two strong hands caught her by the arms and pulled her back and onto her feet again.  Devon smiled in relief, about to thank her assumed rescuer when she heard a very different voice than expected:

"Whoa, easy there!  Careful!  Oh, kid—you poor thing.  All in one piece, though…you all right?"

Devon turned and saw a burly man, his "Eggman Movers" uniform dusted with plaster.  His troubled blue eyes looked back intently, awaiting an answer.

"Yeah, I'm okay," she replied.

An expression of immense relief warmed his features.  "Oh, thank goodness," he breathed.  "It's just I was afraid…man, this is all my fault!  But what were the chances?  A school at five 'o clock in the morning—I mean, what were the chances?  I guess I had it comin', though…"

Devon furrowed her brows at him.  "What happened?"

The mover shook his head, avoiding eye contact.  "The old story: I nodded off at the wheel—not much I could do after that.  It all just came so fast…"  He twisted the cap on his head and then pulled it off, running a nervous hand through his dark hair.  "I'd always said it'd never happen to me, and _now_ look!  I nearly ran you over."  He let out a choked laugh that verged on sobbing.  "Serves me right for that kind of thinking," he reckoned with stark realism.

As he finished this explanation, Devon felt a livid heat rise in her cheeks.  She was very tempted to shout in his face, _Of course it serves you right, you idiot!  If Randall hadn't been here, you probably _would_'ve_ _run me over!_  But the thought of her missing companion, along with the man's distraught state and the fact that he truly seemed sorry, stayed her tongue.

Misinterpreting her silence, the mover's face fell.  "You're sure you're okay, kid?" he asked, hesitantly.

"Huh?  Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," she muttered.  "Really."  She hugged herself, distracted by new, clutching worry.

The man nodded, seeming satisfied.  Then turning aside a little, he began patting his pockets in search of something and soon fished out a cell phone.  His right hand shook as he clutched the cell and he stared at it with an utter sense of dread, almost cringing.

"All these early morning haul-jobs," he mumbled, more anxious than accusatory.  "We'll be sued out of existence if they don't stop 'em before something like this happens again…"  With pointed reservation, he dialed Emergency and held up the phone to his ear.  "Then again, I could just lose my job," he continued.  "Ah, I'm just screwed either way, aren't I…?"

Devon only half-listened to his ramblings.  She'd started to wander away from him, crouching down at a possible hiding place nearby.  "_Randall?_" she hissed under her breath.  "_Where are you?_"

The mover took notice of her activity and lowered the cell.  "Hey," he called.  "What do you think you're doing?"

Devon stopped and slowly turned around, locking her eyes into his questioning gaze.  "I…" she said, realizing she couldn't tell him the real reason.  "I was…just looking around.  Not every day you see this kind of thing, you know."  She'd topped the half-truth off with a perky, innocent tone of voice.  Not the most _convincing_ act, but enough to suit her present audience.

The mover shook his head vigorously.  "No…no, I can't let you do that," he said as he started to approach her.  "It's dangerous here, like a war zone.  No place for a young girl to explore; something's liable to fall on you, and _then_ where'll we be?"  He placed a hand on her back, trying to guide her toward the hole in the wall.  "No…it's best that you just get on home—stay out of trouble.  Go on as if this never happened."

Devon started at this throwback to her dad's words on Friday night.  She looked up to the mover's face.  "But the police," she tried.  "Won't they want to talk to me, too?"

He continued shaking his head.  "Not good, not good to get you involved," he said.  "No police reports, no evening news spots for you."  He looked down at her, his eyes fretful.  "I've put you through enough trouble as it is.  You leaving will solve a lot of problems—for both of us.  Now adios!"

"But—" she protested, but was pushed through the hole and into the open.  Suddenly cold, Devon rubbed her arms and noticed the mangled section of chain link fence, then looked up to the predawn sky.  _You don't understand_, she thought at the man.  But he'd already disappeared, back into the wreckage.

"That was weird," she commented, grimacing.  _He didn't even hear me call for Randall just before he caught me._  She tried to shake off the strangeness with a shrug, and then with tentative steps she moved into the more open part of the school's grassy field.  Her eyes scanned the area and came up with nothing—not even curious neighbors who surely should've been awakened by the crash.

"Randall?" Devon called, keeping her voice to a hush since anything louder might attract the mover's attention.  "C'mon Randall, this isn't funny!  I just wanna know if you're all right."  She sighed away the annoyance in her tone.  _You'd better be all right…_

The thought triggered an unconscious digging of one hand into her pocket, to feel the watch for comfort.  When her fingers didn't come across it, however, Devon stopped dead in her tracks.  Almost frantically, she turned both side pockets of her coveralls inside-out and patted all the others.  Nothing.  Which left only one possibility: she'd dropped the pocket watch during the crash.  Well, that tore it—mover or no mover, she was going back in, and she certainly wasn't stopping for anything or anyone.  Not when it came to Jonah, at least.

Devon turned heel and quickly crawled back into the rubble, not having strayed very far from the site anyway.  A pale pall still seemed to hang over the destruction, like a mist that wouldn't settle.  This meant practically getting on hands and knees to search, along with enduring a series of coughs that tried to keep the invading dust out of her system.  Then bingo: a dull glint partially buried under some powdery debris.  She scrambled to it and lifted the watch, dusting it off as best she could while sitting back on her heels.  Aside from the usual wear-and-tear, it looked to have come out unscathed.  Devon tried to grin in triumph or at least in relief, but somehow couldn't find the heart to do so.  Closing her eyes and sighing, she pocketed the watch and rose to her feet.  The empty feeling settled in her chest as she started to make her way toward the hole…and toward home.

And it _would_'ve happened that way.  That is, if she hadn't chanced a glance to her right just before exiting.

Devon slowed and stopped, her eyes widening in puzzlement.  There was a deeper darkness toward the classroom end of the destruction than when she'd first seen the movers' truck wedged inside.  Taking a step toward it, she discerned the reason: the truck's back door had been pulled up, revealing its hollow cargo hold.

"Funny," she thought aloud.  "That wasn't open before."

With due caution, she approached the truck and halted a yard or two away to study it.  It wasn't one of "Eggman Movers'" normal trucks—more like the size and build of a small U-Haul.  The opened back wasn't as dark this close-up, either, with the cargo hold's metal lining reflecting some of the ghostly glow outside.  And from this angle, it looked empty.  But something still nagged at Devon's brain as "wrong", so she shifted to get a head-on view of the cargo hold.

And this time there _was_ something.  Leaning against the far wall, a bit haphazard, was a door.

_Even weirder_.  Why on earth would someone pay a mover to carry a single door?  Then again, who was _she_ to ask such a question?  But she'd seen neither hide nor hair of the mover since he'd "escorted" her out of the rubble, and with nothing else making sense thus far, she felt the urge to just do something.

So, perhaps against her better judgment, she crawled into the truck's cargo hold to have a look-see.

Her footfalls sent sharp, metallic echoes as she neared the hold's far end.  When Devon drew up to the door itself, there didn't seem to be anything out of the ordinary about it except that it was still hinged to a thick, wooden frame.  She snorted at it, putting a curled finger to her lips.  The thing looked rather old and worthless; surely nothing she should be wasting her time puzzling over.  Halfheartedly, she gave its knob a twist and turned to go.

The door creaked open behind her.  Devon stopped—not at the sound but at the sudden draft against her back.  _What…?_  The nape of her neck prickled, and more than just at the new sensation.  A part of her was eager to turn around and look while the other, more reasonable part sensed a heaviness in this simple decision that, for her own safety, shouldn't have been there.  She took in several shaky, openmouthed breaths, her eyes fluttering.  Then with a gulp she turned toward the door.

It was there, partially open.  But what little she saw _through_ it dropped all pretenses of normality that might've been left.

_There was another room behind that door._

"But…" she said aloud, then stopped herself.  It couldn't be—could it?  This door wasn't even flat against the wall, so how could it possibly lead to _anywhere_ expect the other side of the same door?  But what was there was there, and her eyes _weren't_ playing tricks.  Devon eyed the door then, a new curiosity compelling her, she took hold of the knob to open it further.  If logic couldn't explain this, she'd just have to go and find out for herself.

She peeked her head inside and gripped her hands on the doorframe, then let go in surprise.  The frame wasn't wood on the other side like she'd expected, but rather a cool, gray metal marked with scratches and signs of wear.  Noting this, Devon turned her attention back to the space around her.  It was a large, large room, stretching outward from either side of her door like a bowling alley.  The ceiling was highest directly above her head, and it sloped downward under the support of long, imposing beams toward the opposite wall.  A row of office desks ran parallel to that wall, their individual bulletin boards laden with notes and colorful flyers.  A fairly industrial and no-nonsense place, all around—at least from what she could see in the dark.  The large windows above and behind her let in some moonlight, but not nearly enough to illuminate the entire room.

"Wow…" she breathed.  Devon took a step inside, stumbling as the pull of gravity changed direction slightly; the incline of the hazard ramp she'd stepped on didn't help much, either.  She fell to her knees with a metallic _thump_, her bracing hands only adding to the noise.  Echoes boomed through the room's length and she winced, biting her lip.  After all, there was no way of telling if the security here would take to her presence very kindly…

A quick, dark movement caught the corner of her eye as she started to get up.  Stopping, Devon flicked her gaze about the room until it rested on the main entrance at the room's left end.  There, along the entrance's top lip, clung a longish figure that, with a turn of its indistinguishable head, suddenly slithered to the right and out of the room.  The tip of a thin tail trailed behind, briefly flickering into view before vanishing.

Devon's face brightened.  "Randall…?"  Then louder: "Randall!"  She got up and broke into a sprint, making for the room's main entrance.  There were very few things that would've given her pause then—and, of course, that was precisely the next thing that came along.

"Noise, noise, noise!" grumbled an unfamiliar male voice outside the room.  "All of this hoopla after-hours—a disgrace!  Those crazy newbies'll be the death of us all, if I cannah whip 'em into shape."

Devon skidded to a stop and froze.  Realizing the movement (since the sound couldn't be described as footsteps) in the hall outside was nearing, she did the first thing that came to mind: she hid under the closest desk, watching from underneath to see who would come in.

A new figure soon appeared at the entrance, too far off and too dim for her to make out his definite form.  He brandished a flashlight, guiding its white beam around the room in search of the noisy perpetrators he obviously expected to find.

"Krull!  Lloyd!  Wippett!" the voice barked.  "For cryin' out loud, stop this horsin' around!  And I donnah _care_ if it's too early in the night for infiltration!  Now get off yer lazy bums and start makin' yourselves useful, eh?"

The flashlight's beam now fell along the desks, working its way toward Devon as it inspected each one, top and underside.

"What's with this hide-'n-go-seekin' business, eh?" the gruff voice continued.  "Yer all actin' like there's a hu…hu…haaaaaahhhh…"

He'd lost coherence the moment his light fell upon Devon.  Blinded, she brought up an arm to shield her eyes.  _What's with this guy?_ she thought.  _Can't he tell I'm just a kid?_

But he babbled on.  "Itsa, itsa…hah-hah-hah-hah-haahhh…"  A pause.  Then, after an appropriately large gasp:

"_HUUMMAAAAN!_"

The flashlight dropped to the floor.  Devon lowered her arm and saw the hall lights flicker on, clarifying the figure's silhouette.  His great mass quivered and he wildly flailed about his…his…

_Tentacles!_

And all eight of 'em, too.

She screamed and scuttled from underneath her desk.  Upon hearing this, the creature screamed anew and ran off, hollering for help like a madman.  Devon paid him no heed and went straight for the door, which was still settled in its odd, bulky apparatus and seemed ready to go.  But instead of running through it into the cargo hold of the movers' truck, she nearly slammed into the door—a _closed_ door.  She wrung the life out of its knob, trying to make it give and turn but to no avail.  She banged hard, desperate fists against the door.  "Let me in!" she shrieked at it.  "Let me in!  Please, just _let me in!_"

Voices arose in the hall.  Devon halted in her efforts and whipped around, listening.  One voice she recognized as belonging to the creature with the flashlight, who was presently addressing the others.  "It's in here, I tell ya!" he was saying.  "In fifty years these seven eyes've never failed me, so I tell ya it's in there!"

Devon backed away from the door.  Time was up.  Now she had no choice but to run for it.

She took to the right, focused solely on finding another way out of this room.  The paneled wall straight ahead offered nothing except a large opening near the ceiling—and with no visible means to get up there, not even a built-in ladder.  So she set her sights to the left and then found it: at the far corner, hidden by shadows until she'd approached this end of the room, was a corridor.  The thought of simply hiding out in the room until her pursuers left crossed her mind then, but they were too close and it was too late to change plans now.  Doing so more with more commitment than she felt, Devon shunted to the left and passed into the corridor.

Her feet banged on metal as if she were on a catwalk.  In fact, that was pretty much all this corridor was: an enclosed catwalk with a red glow emitting through the narrow gaps on either side, the light coming from an unknown space or room below.  As she barreled onward, she grabbed at the side rails and pulled forward along them, hoping this would help propel her forward.  And she probably needed to; she was desperately running out of energy and at the point of stopping dead to recoup.  But she pushed herself, gritting her teeth as she navigated through various sharp turns without slamming into a wall first, all the while repeating the thought, _Please don't let them hear me, please don't let them hear me, please don't let them hear me!_

At length, she came upon a section of catwalk that stretched to both sides of its enclosure, stabilizing the metal floor.  Moonlight illumined this space instead of the red glow, through a small, dirty skylight not unlike the ones at Devon's old school.  The girl slowed to a stop here, doubling over as her chest heaved for breath.  It finally felt like the immediate danger had passed.  So, craning her head back and closing her eyes, she slumped against the left wall and slid toward the floor as her knees buckled.

Very close to a sitting position, however, Devon felt the wall fall away from her back.  Her attempts at grabbing hold of something came too late; she plunged headfirst into a narrow chute, sliding downward and letting out a startled, prolonged scream.  Limbs smacked around throughout the drop, until the chute's slope leveled out and she shot out, tumbling, into a dark room.

She rolled to a stop.  Moaning, Devon rose to her feet in aching sluggishness.  The first thing she noticed were her breaths, which came out in shaky, red-hued plumes.  The coldness down here was different—slightly damp, slicing to one's very marrow.  She hugged herself and drew her gaze to the network of pipes above, their various sizes snaking in, out, and around each other in multiple layers.  There was a break in the network for a recessed, rectangular space where surely, at one point, something else had been stored up there.  But any clues as to _what_ had been patched over with metal sheets; an incidental slither between sheets allowed in a shaft of moonlight, and nothing else.  The room's main source of light radiated from red bulbs, all encased in caged wire.

Devon's expression grew dark.  "Great."  She looked to the floor and saw a large, thick bolt near her foot.  Fists clenching, she sucked in a hissing breath.  "Just _GREAT!_"

She sent the bolt flying with a kick and watched where it landed.  Her morose face suddenly fell away, her lips parting a little.  The bolt lay, gleaming dully, under a cobwebbed and dusty mass of machinery she hadn't noticed before.  Quirking an eyebrow, she moved toward it to investigate.  One small section appeared to be the remains of a control panel, which had been crushed behind the bulk of a long, sleek apparatus.  Devon bent over the latter, lightly running her fingers along the strange yellow canisters attached to its rear.  She then brushed off some dust along the body of the machine itself, so she could smooth a hand over its surface.  There was just something about this thing…almost a sad, reverential sense about it that she felt a connection to, but couldn't put her finger on for the life of her.

With a sigh, she dropped her hand away.  Mysteries would have to be left for another time—that is, if there would _be_ another time.

_Looks like I'm spending the night here_.  Giving the machine a final pat, Devon hunkered down and leaned her back against it; the dust and cobwebs wouldn't be that much of a bother, she decided.  After several, silent moments like this, her hand wandered into a side pocket and brought out the watch.  Even under the red light, it still had a ring of purity about it.

She flipped it open; not interested in the time, but in the warm, familiar face of Jonah on the adjacent side.

"Ah, man…" she moaned, putting a hand to her face.  "What've I gotten myself into?"

The photo only looked back, silent.

She sighed.  Snapping the watch shut, Devon curled up on the icy floor to make an attempt at sleep.  But her eyes couldn't stop drinking in the alien surroundings, even as those surroundings seemed to threaten life as she knew it.  Forever.

"Now what?" she muttered, flatly.  A tear slid down her cheek and she wiped it off, holding back the rest with a sniff.

It was going to be a long, long night, under the glow of red lights.

************************************************************************************

Thus the REAL mystery begins!~_^  And so that there's no confusion, it's around 8:00 at night on the same day in Monstropolis (in other words, fifteen hours later than in California).

Now there's something I'd like a vote on, if some of you fine people can help me out: with the aid of Pitbulllady's suggestion, I've narrowed down candidates for Mr. Vega's voice talent to either Dennis Quaid or Mel Gibson.  So if you guys could help me chose the right man for the job, I'd greatly appreciate it!  And, of course, I'm always up for new suggestions.^_^  Thanks for reading!


	5. Déjà Vu, Part I

HOMECOMING

**By Light Rises**

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**Author's Note****:** BOO-YA, I'M BACK! After far, _far_ too long a hiatus, I have emerged from the soul-sucking manure of A.P. Exams to bring you the next chapter! To all of my readers I owe my deepest apologies for making you wait so long for an update. I still have some schoolwork left, yes, but barring the next about three weeks, I should be back on the saddle from this point onward.

**Disclaimer****:** Mr. Gromkee and CDA agent Number 00626 are my creations. Almost everything else—and here's where I'll make a correction from previous "Disclaimers"—was created by Pixar, and now owned by Disney. Now that I've got that cleared up…

On with the story!

**Time****:** Late afternoon of Monday, April 14, 2003 in Monstropolis.

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Chapter 4 – Déjà Vu, Part I

"…So you're sure you haven't heard anything from him? Not even a call or, or an e-mail…? 'No'…oh…what? No no, there's nothing urgent or anything, it's just that I'm starting to—"

Sulley paused, feeling prying eyes on his back. He turned a little to see two employees standing just outside the short, dead-end hallway their boss had hunched down in to take the private call. With a stern, slightly annoyed look, the CEO brought a hand to his mouth and cleared his throat. The taller of the curious monsters let out a startled "Oh!" and urged his friend onward, pushing a bit roughly as they continued down the main hallway, back to their original business.

Turning again to the wall, Sulley sighed. "Sorry about that," he spoke into his cell. "I was just…yeah…yeah, I know. I've been checking around all day, but I haven't come up with anything, and now…uh-huh." He sighed again, more deeply this time. "Well, just give me a ring if you hear anything from him, okay? Thanks…yeah, you take care too. 'Bye."

He terminated the call and let out a soft "Huh", furrowing his brows. _Where_ _IS_ _that guy?_ he thought, a tad worriedly. _He's never been secretive about what he's doing, so why now?_

Sulley stood there a moment, rolling his blue eyes heavenward as though an answer could be found in the ceiling tiles. Then with a shake of his head he trudged into the main hallway, clipping the phone onto a simple, ebony belt he'd grown accustomed to wearing. A missing board member or not, he had work to finish off and an umpteen amount of things to do afterwards, so there was simply no time for worrying. But that luxury would come later—and _then_ Sulley could pull out all the stops to find his other, newer good buddy…

Comforted a little by this, he managed to wave and smile at passing employees, a clipboard in the crook of one arm as he ambled toward Laughfloor F. Perhaps Mike could give him a pick-me-up before Sulley had to return to the wonderful world of "Paperwork" that awaited him at his office.

But that familiar, high-strung voice would reach _him_ first.

"…She did it! She actually went and _did it!_" Mike's loud fuming echoed through the hallway.

Sulley turned his head to look back. "Who did what?" he questioned calmly, the green monster coming up to his side from behind.

"_Celia!_" Mike held out his hands, his eye lidded and glaring at the floor as he walked with his friend. "She'd threatened to leave for Mother's, and did I believe her then? Of course not—she knows _I_ know she's got more sense than that. Which is _precisely_ why she's actually gone up and DONE IT!"

Sulley, quite used to Mike's muttered speed-talking, was quick to reply. "How do you know she's really gone?"

Mike looked up at the furry CEO. "Oh, I don't know, Sulley," he said in mock coyness. "Maybe I got a clue when I found out she'd changed all the locks to her _townhouse!_"

Sulley winced in sympathy. "Ouch. That _is_ pretty cold," he commented. "But didn't she do that last spring when you destroyed the family heirloom?"

"Hey, hey!" Mike said, scowling in defensiveness. "I was tryin' to do _flamb_—not melt some stupid, eighteenth century earwax statue!"

Sulley gave him a scolding look. "_Mikey_…"

"Okay, okay, sheesh!" he relented, waving it off. "But Celia was just _mad_ then, and folks at least knew where the heck she was. Now I've sat at her doorstep for three nights straight—"

"So _that's_ where you disappeared to," Sulley said, feigning enlightenment.

"—and I've been leaving messages on her answering machine like crazy!" Mike continued. "Fifty calls to her house, and what do I get? Nada. Zilch. Not even a lousy hang-up!"

Sulley closed his eyes, thinking. "Sixty-three calls, actually," he stated. "And another eight from telemarketers."

The small monster blinked up at his buddy. "_You've listened to her answering machine_," he breathed in indignant wonder.

Sulley shrugged. "Well, she needed _someone_ to feed Mr. Gruples this weekend," he reasoned. "And preferably someone with the new keys."

Tight-lipped with fury, Mike stepped into Sulley's path. "_You_," he started, walking backwards and pointing an accusing finger, "you were in on this crazy 'I'm-leaving-for-Mother's' business all along, weren't you?"

"It just kinda fell into my lap," he answered honestly. "Considering she _had_ to call me about taking her three weeks' vacation to fly to Milstalkee, and since the housesitter wasn't coming over till late last night."

Mike's expression lost its edge as he fell back into step alongside his friend. "_I_ used to be the housesitter," he murmured with a wide-eyed, pitiable look.

Sulley bent down to give him a gentle pat on the back. "I think you really teed Celia off this time, Mikey. And she isn't gonna forget it soon."

With a glare, Mike pushed away Sulley's arm. "Whoa, whoa, I wouldn't be going on like that, Mr. Big Shot!" he exclaimed. "You played your own little part in what she's mad at ME for, remember?"

At the mention of this topic, Sulley averted his face to hide a grimace. "I _really_ don't think this is a good place to bring that up, Mikey," he said, uncomfortably shifting the clipboard from one arm to the other. "Besides, I've got a lot on my plate as it is, and _way_ too much on mind to worry about somebody who I know is perfectly fine." As he said it, he inwardly cringed at the unintentional irony of his words.

But Mike didn't pick up on it. A different kind of illumination dawning, Mike's features softened. "Ooohh," he cooed meaningfully. With a sudden, sly smile, he nudged his friend's lower left side. "So, pal…would there be among all those feverish thoughts engaging our beloved CEO some regarding a certain, oh, I don't know"—he paused in his smooth patter—"_female?_"

Sully blushed furiously, but hid this fact with a dismissive chuckle. "C'mon, Mike," he said, shaking his head. "Don't get any ideas; I mean, I've only _known_ the gal for a couple days." He finished in a blunt, singsong tone: "_She's just a friend_."

"Ah, and so she is _now_, my bosom chum," said Mike, switching into his "genteel" mode as he pulled Sulley aside. "But I can see it coming a mile away: the wistful sighs; the hickeys; the long, romantical nights spent in vigil underneath her balcony, all in hopes of catching a glimpse of her exquisite form." He sighed indulgently.

A bit sadly, Sulley shook his head. "I doubt Janis even _has_ a balcony," he muttered.

Mike didn't notice the comment. "Yes, Sul," he went on in the same, dreamy voice. "Soon enough, you too shall set sail and begin exploring the bittersweet depths that is _l'amour_."

After a short pause, Sulley raised an eyebrow. "Uh-huh…well until that happens, I don't wanna hear the words 'Sulley' and 'girlfriend' in the same sentence, okay?" He gave Mike a little, good-natured smile before starting down the hallway again.

The green monster stood where he was, saluting. "Right-o, Capitan!" He then sprinted to catch up, half-skipping as he tried to keep in step with Sulley.

"So, when do I get to meet this 'mystery woman' of yours?" he asked.

Sulley kept his gaze fixed straight ahead. "Oh, you'll run into her eventually," he replied. Ugh. He knew that sounded WAY too evasive, so he decided to change the subject to cover it up.

"Say Mikey…have you seen Conrad around the past couple days? Anywhere?"

"You mean that Mr. Davies fella?" At Sulley's nod, Mike tapped the area under his mouth in thought. "No, can't say that I have," he answered after a moment. "Why do ya ask?"

"Because no one _else_ seems to know where he's gone, either," Sulley said, anxious all over again. "I missed him and the Chavezes last Friday when I went downtown for lunch, so I wanted to call everyone and apologize. I got a hold of Laura and Carl all right, but Conrad…well, it's almost like he's dropped off the _planet_. Not a word to anyone—not even Beverly, since I gave her a ring just a few minutes ago, too."

Mike's emotional response amounted to a blank expression. "His own secretary's clueless, huh?" he mused softly. "That _is_ weird…"

Sulley nodded. "Yeah. So now I'm starting to get a bit, well, you know…_worried_ about him." Giving in to what had become a common, nervous habit of his, he started tugging at his necktie. "I wanna make sure he's okay, after all."

Mike only nodded, and Sulley dropped his arm back to his side. He knew he'd stated the obvious by admitting he was "worried", but actually saying it aloud made him feel better, even if just a little. Besides, Mike understood well enough that Mr. Davies was more than just a board member with whom it was wise to curry favor. No—_this_ guy was actually a friend, and a good one at that.

Even if only to Sulley, as the case turned out to be…

"Looks like your Davies fella isn't the only one gone AWOL," Mike said suddenly, slowing to a stop.

Sulley halted too and followed his friend's gaze. Not only had they made it to Laughfloor F, but there was quite a scene going on at its main entrance: a long line of employees stood outside the dispatch office, loudly grumbling amongst each other. They were all frayed nerves, each monster hefting a sizeable pile of paper and shooting dirty looks.

Sulley gawked at this sight with a mixture of bewilderment and frustration. To him, it translated to a mountain of extra paperwork that would be sent his way if things didn't change. And quick.

After a brief scanning of the area, he spotted Jerry standing nearby, just a little away from the commotion. The red monster's lidded, weary eyes kept mostly to his own clipboard as Sulley came up behind him.

"Jer, what's going on here?"

"End-of-the-day rush," the floor manager explained gruffly, not bothering to turn his head. "A lotta laugh assistants were looking to file their paperwork last minute-wise, but Shirley's nowhere to be found. So now we've got _this_." He waved toward the crowd with a jaded air.

"You mean she's really not in there?" Mike piped up. He had caught up to Sulley's left leg and now peeked his head from behind it, squinting at the darkened dispatch office.

"Nope, never even showed," Jerry answered. "And all the custodian found in the office this morning was some open file drawers and a general messiness to things—_real_ un-Shirley-like, if ya ask me." He paused, turning toward the two as he lowered the clipboard to look away and up, his brows drawn together in thought. "Come to think of it," he resumed, "I'd heard on Saturday that she was stayin' late Sunday night to finish up some business. Fungus joined her to help out, I think."

Mike stepped into the open with a puzzled look. "Geez. And all this time, I'd thought she was just taking an extra long coffee break…"

"Wait a minute," Sulley interrupted. "Are you saying that Fungus didn't come to work, either?"

Jerry shook his head. "He never clocked in today."

Sulley couldn't help raising an eyebrow at this, a furry hand at his chin. A very peculiar thing, it was, to have two of his most dedicated employees out sick or otherwise—and on a _Monday_, which certainly wasn't their style. Last time Sulley checked, Fungus loved his job to pieces and wouldn't miss a day of work for the world. And Shirley…well, to say her work ethic (not to mention her charming personality) took after Roz was explanation enough. So what sense could be made out of this development, Sulley wasn't clear on.

Mentally filing away this information for later, he pressed Jerry with a new question. "So…why are you sticking around here?"

"To monitor things," Jerry stated simply. "First off, I don't trust the janitors to keep this bunch in line after I clock out. Second, the Comedians didn't want a _thing_ to do with this mess—they whipped out the usual 'It's my night to cook,' yadda, yadda, yadda, and all those other lame excuses on me and their assistants. _RIGHT_, Mike?"

Jerry's eyes snapped toward Mike, whom Sulley now noticed had been trying to sneak off until this pointed comment was directed at him. Halting in mid-tiptoe, Mike turned a little and grinned out of one side of his mouth, chuckling nervously. "Eh, heh heh heh…wouldn't know what you're talking about, Jer. 'Kay, 'bye now!"

Unconvinced, Sulley blocked the small monster's route of escape. "Mikey," he said warningly, "unless something's changed in the last few minutes, you _have_ no excuse to run off just yet, now do you?"

After an indecisive moment, Mike seemed to rediscover some of his vestigial backbone—or at least the part that fed off his sarcasm. "What? Do you think I get PAID to baby-sit a buncha whiny laugh assistants? No no no no no." He let out a short cough before continuing. "Sul, there's a reason why I work _alone_ out on the floor, and it's all about a little thing called 'self-accountability'. I am responsible for my own actions, and with these goofballs running the show for everyone else,"—he jabbed a thumb at the crowd of assistants—"I'd rather like to leave it _as such_."

Jerry suddenly smirked. "So then you only have yourself to blame for being backlogged on paperwork through last December, eh Wazowski?"

Mike's mouth fell open slightly as he turned to face Jerry. "Was I speaking to you?" he bristled, his eye glaring under the drooped lid.

The floor manager's smirk only broadened at this. "Nope. But you were askin' for it."

The looks on their faces—of sly coolness on Jerry's, and of seething crossness on Mike's—proved simply priceless to Sulley. But his amusement sobered up quick enough, once he realized just how much a certain, _other_ monster would've dearly relished witnessing this scene—to see the tables turned on "poor old" Mike, for once.

Hastily, Sulley let out a somewhat nervous chuckle at his friend's expense. "Looks like you're stuck here anyway, buddy," he said, folding his arms with the clipboard draped over his left forearm. "Not while you've got paperwork to take care of."

His sourness falling away, Mike raised a finger in defiant triumph. "Ah-HA! _That's_ where you're wrong, my friend!" He grew poised, a smug grin on his face. "_I've_ got it all covered."

Sulley's face screwed up in wary curiosity. "How?"

Just as he asked this, a high-pitched "_Oh, Mr. Wazoooowwwskiiiii!_" resounded. The trio turned to see none other than Needleman, who carried a ridiculously tall stack of paperwork as he approached them at a wobbly sprint. The pile swayed and relinquished some fluttering sheets with Needleman's every step, then made a threatening shudder as he stopped in front of Mike, causing the green monster to flinch.

"Mr. Wazowski!" Needleman repeated, breathless. "I've got the puce and the goldenrod down—all sorted an' alphabetized, like you said—everything, _all_ of it, actually. But the fuchsia, I can't remember—_please_ tell me—_what do I do with the FUCHSIA?!_" He paused, noticing Sulley for the first time. "Oh, hello Mr. Sullivan," he greeted, suddenly calm and cheerful.

His free hand on one hip, Sulley directed a stern glare at Mike. "_No_, Mike," he enunciated. "He can't do your paperwork; it's not his job, and I'm not gonna let you force extra stuff on him on my time."

"_'Force'?_" Mike exclaimed incredulously. "What're you talking about, Sul? The kid _loves_ doing my paperwork! Don't ya, Needleman?" The yellow monster nodded vigorously. "There, you see?" Mike went on. "Now how can I deprive him of the joy? Trust me, Sulley, he'll be fine—we'll _both_ be very well off, in fact. So let's just leave it alone, eh pal?" He gave a wink (or at least the cyclopean equivalent of one) and nudged Sulley's right leg, in much the same conspiratorial way he'd done earlier.

The furry monster shook his head. "Why do I feel like we've had this conversation before…?" he mumbled.

Taking this as an affirmative, Mike grinned at Needleman. "What did I tell ya, kid? It's all well and good." He then spun Needleman around, giving him a pat just above the base of his tail. "Now get back in line," he ordered flatly.

The nerdy monster obliged and started to head off with a merry, nasally hum. But he didn't get very far before Smitty appeared around the corner, steering an empty canister cart toward Laughfloor F's main entrance. The moment he spotted Needleman, the task at hand was all but forgotten.

"Thou traitorous fiend!" Smitty shouted. "How durst you showeth thy face around these parts!"

Sighing, Needleman rolled his eyes in exasperation. "C'mon, man, you _know_ I'm not into that 'Mudhuts & Monsters' junk anymore. It's all just so…_immature!_"

"It is not _thou_ that speakest," insisted Smitty as he clicked the cart's bar into place, "but that wretched paperwork! It has devoured thy essence and transformed thee into a vacuous, servile vessel!" He stuck out his bottom lip in a pout, then dramatically putting a hand on his chest, he finished with: "The treacherous words it hast spoken through thee hath piercèd my very heart!"

Needleman turned away, starting off toward the line again. "Oh, go playeth on a freeway," he spat.

Upon hearing this, Smitty gasped and then shook with outrage. "THAT DOES IT!" he bellowed. "Thou hast left me no other choice but to useth—_this!_" With an awkward flourish, he pulled out a gaudy (though hardly lethal) sword, encrusted with simulated gemstones and 14-karat gold plating.

Needleman backed away with a slight stumble. "No!" he wheezed. "Not our genuine replica of a Xeerax tribe scimitar with Flooropean influence!"

"The very article," Smitty replied, "and a fitting challenge for a Third Level Grand Wizard such as thyself." He was quite oblivious to the audience of monsters he was attracting. "Now come, knave, and meet thy destiny!"

"Not if you can't catch me first!" Needleman said. He then turned tail and ran, spilling scores of papers from his tottering pile as he bolted past Mike, Sulley, and Jerry into the main hallway.

"Hey, hey, hey! Stop it!" Mike yelled after him. "You're messing up the _papers_, you id—ufff!" He toppled to the floor as Smitty pushed him aside, the slug monster speeding by at a surprisingly fast pace.

"Come back, dude!" he cried after Needleman, dropping the "M&M" role-playing talk. "Stop before the paperwork totally sucks you into its evil vortex…!"

Sulley continued to watch after them as he helped Mike onto his feet. Jerry watched too, sighing. "That's my cue," he said. "Here's to hopin' I see you on the other side, Sul." He saluted the CEO before starting his pursuit of Smitty and Needleman.

"Yeah, see ya, Jer," Sulley answered, a bit wearily. The casual spectators decided this was a good time to take their leave, and the lined-up laugh assistants resumed their grousing.

Brushing himself off, Mike grumbled some things along the lines of, "No good, rotten little…" before straightening completely. Sulley glanced down at his friend as Mike looked up, the latter placing his hands on his nonexistent hips. "You _see_ what I have to deal with every day?" he said, glowering.

Sulley turned his head away, shaking it—which was something he noticed he'd been doing a _lot_ in the past ten minutes. He only half-listened as Mike went on about how this was why he ALWAYS worked alone on the Laughfloor, etc., etc.; Sulley just didn't want to hear any of it. This afternoon at work was just not shaping up very well for him. Not very well for him at all…

"Eh, pardon me, Mr. Sullivan," spoke an aged voice, accompanied by some gentle tugs at the fur along Sulley's upper left leg. "If you don't mind giving me a moment…"

Sulley looked toward the voice's source to see a rather squat, wizened monster blinking up through coke bottle spectacles from below. He was hardly taller than Mike and had an unusual, somewhat theropodan look about him with his tiny arms and thick, stiff tail. His complexion read best as the consistency of Human World oatmeal—mottled, bumpy, and with a subtle gloss that suggested warmth.

"Oh, Mr. Gromkee!" Sulley exclaimed upon recognition. "No, no, I don't mind at all. What do you need?"

Mr. Gromkee's small mouth curled in a smile. "Well, seeing as it _is_ the end of the work day and all, it seems to me a good time to conduct our bit of business downstairs, don't you think?"

Sulley mumbled, "'Our bit of busin…'" in thought before it struck him. "_Oh!_ You mean the Sector H Refinery inspection! Is that it?"

"Yes, yes, yes, yes!" he bubbled with a cheery lisp. "So shall we then, eh, 'go to'?"

"Sure, just give me a sec," the CEO replied, holding up a finger. Mr. Gromkee gave a curt nod and began knitting his petite hands in eagerness, while Sulley turned to Mike and kneeled to get at the green monster's level.

"Listen, Mike," he started, "I'm gonna be down in the Refinery with Mr. Gromkee for awhile. So how's 'bout while I'm gone, you go see if Tish from the dispatch office at Laughfloor C is still around to help straighten things out over here?"

Mike had been brushing off his left arm—still very much absorbed in his own indignant thoughts—until Sulley had reached the second part of his little speech. "Oooohhh no…oh no, you don't!" he said, taking a step backward and waving his hands. "After all this junk, there's _no way_ I'm—!"

"Mikey," said Sulley, gently placing his hands on Mike's shoulders and looking him straight in the eye, "it's only a little favor; could you at _least_ do that much for me?" Sulley looked away a moment, sighing through his nose. "We used to be a team not too long ago," he went on. "Why don't we act like one again for a little while? Just for today's sake?"

This seemed to strike a cord in Mike, for the little monster only stared back, his eye wide and mouth slightly agape. Sulley took this speechlessness as a cue to get up and leave, Mr. Gromkee leading the way with an excited, thick-legged shuffle.

A blink and headshake later, Mike regained his senses…and was hardly better for it.

"Oh…now I KNOW where I've seen this before!" he shouted after the two. "Think you can say, 'Tough noogies!' and abandon me like last Friday, huh Mr. Big Shot? Well then we'll just _see_ what happens to big throw rugs who ditch their BEST FRIENDS to take leisurely strolls with old geezers…!"

"What is that young Michael's saying?" asked Mr. Gromkee politely. "I can't quite make it out."

Sulley clenched his teeth. "Uh…he's just mad about having to take polls to find some cold tweezers," he lied. "It's one of those things he's rather …_sensitive_ about discussing."

"_Oooohh_," Mr. Gromkee replied, with an understanding nod. Sulley exhaled silently as they continued down the hallway. For once, he was actually _glad_ the elderly monster was a tad hard-of-hearing.

* * *

"…It's been quite a ride, my lad, but it seems my number's finally up."

The Refinery-bound duo had made a stopover at the hardhat bin when Mr. Gromkee blurted this out. It'd caught Sulley off guard at a bad moment: hefting and studying a couple hardhats to see which one had the more suitable horn holes, the CEO suddenly fumbled with both and dropped one to the floor with a noisy clatter.

"Wha?" he asked, utterly at a loss. He clutched the hardhat he still had with both hands.

Mr. Gromkee let out a good-natured chortle. "Blast my poor manners! So sorry 'bout that, Mr. Sullivan," he apologized as he stretched to reach into the bin. "Didn't mean for you to take it that way. Oh, no, not at all." With a muffled "umph" he pulled out a hardhat, flashing that little, gentle smile of his. "It's just that…" he trailed off. Suddenly thoughtful, he turned the hardhat over in his hands, his two bespectacled eyes lingering on the company logo a moment. "Well, I've been thinking it's just 'bout time for this old coot to hang up his tool belt. For keeps."

Sulley donned his hardhat as Mr. Gromkee did the same. "Gee, I…had no idea you've been considering this for so long."

The older monster shrugged, motioning for Sulley to follow him. "Eh…when your best friends are the mechanical innards of a turbine, you tend to have a lot of time to yourself," he explained. "You see, very few monsters understand the kind of…_passion_ I have for what I do here—my interest in all this 'engineering gibberish', as they've called it. It takes a select few to see, to feel the _warmth_ I find in these cold, mindless machines, and those I've known who did are all long gone, Lord rest their souls."

"But I don't get it," said Sulley. "If you love what you do so much, why retire now?"

Mr. Gromkee's bittersweet laugh seemed out of place with his personality. "Ah, Mr. Sullivan…I've seen _so much_ in my years here. All the changes—the switch from steam to electricity for scream conversion, the baby boom glory days, the stoppage of factory expansion in the 60s and 70s—I've experienced them, worked with them, _changed along with them_. Adaptability is essential in this industry, and I think in this last year, I've finally met my match…"

Sulley's eyes widened. "Laugh power?" he ventured.

"Oh, yes, yes," lisped Mr. Gromkee, opening a door into a hallway of the factory's office sector and walking in, his companion close behind. "And that's the funny part, really. Laughter and screams are a lot alike in theory, and yet—confound it!—when it comes to actually working with one or the other, they're both so…_different_." He sighed and shook his head, looking somewhat defeated. "It takes a big monster to admit he's taken his knowledge to its limit. At least I can bow out knowing I've fought the good fight and enjoyed every bit of it along the way. Enjoyed it very much, indeed."

In the following silence, Sulley cast his eyes downward. "I'm sorry, Mr. Gromkee," he spoke up, quietly. "I didn't think…"

Mr. Gromkee waved away the apology. "Pish-posh! Change is change, and this is a very good one, I can feel it. So who am _I_ to stand in the way of progress? Why, the very idea goes against my grain." He turned left, his mood bouncy again. "Besides," he continued, "it's high time we brought some new blood into the field—some younguns perhaps, though no flashy hot-shots. You'd be surprised at the number of little engineering prodigies there are running around out there, just waiting to be discovered…ah, here we are."

The two halted and Sulley looked around, suddenly quite perplexed. Mr. Gromkee had led him through a door-lined hallway and had turned into this narrow alcove, where a couple carts loaded with empty laugh canisters were parked. This space ended at a tool rack, which was set up against a vertical-running network of pipes that acted as the alcove's far wall.

Sulley eyed the area doubtfully. "Uh, Mr. Gromkee…" he said, a bit hesitant, "I don't think this is an entrance to Sector H."

The head mechanical engineer chuckled, a smirk forming. "Yes, it _looks_ that way. But—if you will pardon the cliché—not all is as it appears. Watch."

He hobbled to the tool rack, eyeing a clamp-like device that hanged near the rack's lower, left-hand corner. Grasping its handle with a tiny, clawed hand, Mr. Gromkee jerked it—up and to the left, like a lever. The wall of pipes groaned and vibrated, and then separated from floor and ceiling as it swung outward, tool rack and all. The two monsters stepped back to let it open the rest of the way, and Sulley looked on in awe as the secret door unveiled a dark, metallic tunnel. But it was a tempered awe, since—for some reason—this seemed somehow familiar…

Then it hit him: of _course_ he'd seen it before! Boo had opened this door when Sulley was searching for the accidentally kidnapped Mike, and they'd gone down together through it to find Randall's lab in the Refinery.

"How…" Sulley questioned, turning to Mr. Gromkee, "how did you know—?"

"About this door?" he finished. He grinned and laughed heartily, his magnified eyes beaming. "Because _I built it!_"

Sulley blinked, truly and honestly taken aback. "_You?_"

"Oh, yes." Mr. Gromkee gave the door a small, proud pat. "This thing dates back to the second Mr. Waternoose, for use as a quick segue to Sector H for certain 'authorized personnel' or something like that." He snorted softly as he passed through the door. "A peculiar bunch, those Waternooses," he remarked, brow wrinkled in puzzlement. "Always made the oddest requests…"

Sulley ducked his head as he entered the passageway. "Wow, and I'd always thought—" He stopped himself; had stopped moving, even.

Mr. Gromkee about-faced, his gaze warm and inquisitive. "Hmmm? You'd always thought what?"

For a self-conscious moment, Sulley only stared back with a slackened jaw. He _was_ about to say he'd always thought Randall had rigged up the door, not Mr. Gromkee. But…no…no, it didn't make sense to bring it up. Why had that even MATTERED enough to come to mind? Something about this question had a subduing effect on Sulley, and even made him feel a bit…inexplicably…_sad_.

The furry monster averted his eyes. "Nothing," he muttered in reply, shaking his head. "It's nothing."

This seemed good enough for Mr. Gromkee. "Well then, let's get a move on!" he urged excitedly, starting off again. "C'mon, c'mon! We're not getting any younger here, you know."

_He just had to use THAT_ _phrase, didn't he?_ Sulley thought. With a quiet sigh, he followed Mr. Gromkee into the tunnel, hearing that same, eerie _clang_ of the door sealing shut he'd heard almost a year and a half ago.

For the first few minutes after they'd emerged from the passageway into the Refinery, things went along quite normally. Mr. Gromkee pointed out various things and expounded on a few (usually quite unnecessarily), and Sulley blackened in certain little boxes on several sheets attached to his clipboard, writing appropriate comments on the blank lines provided. If nothing else, he understood the general gist of why they were here and what needed to be done: Sector H hadn't been fully operational for decades, and now that Monsters, Inc. was finally expanding again, this area (along with other disused sectors of the Refinery) would need to be primed for handling laugh energy on a daily basis. And from what Sulley could discern from Mr. Gromkee's ramblings, the transition would require a LOT more than just "bigger pipes"…

All this business would've been rather boring, actually, if not for Sulley's growing sense of tension. Mr. Gromkee—no, _no one_ was supposed to come down here again. Ever. Which he realized (all too late) was a silly assumption, and he should've seen a red flag months ago when that blasted, all-encompassing Refinery revamp was first proposed. There were just some…_things_ in this sector that were never meant to be known about (much less seen) outside of a very small, _very_ exclusive circle of monsters; certain sights that, once discovered by an ordinary monster, might very well prompt Sulley to own up to some things which, for more than merely the sake of the company, should NEVER see the light of day. It was all Sulley could do to keep a neutral face in light of being down here with Mr. Gromkee, and having been EXTREMELY lucky so far in terms of not coming across anything particularly, well…"suspicious".

_Everything'll be okay_, he assured himself. _Just so long as he doesn't find—_

"Oooo…now what do we have here?" queried Mr. Gromkee. The old monster was pointing at a cobwebbed bulk of machinery, the bright yellow of its old scream canisters peeking through a layer of dust.

The Scream Extractor.

_Rats!_

"That?" Sulley said, pulling at his necktie. "I…can't say that I really know. It's been so long since I've been down here." This wasn't a complete lie; it was true he hadn't ventured into this part of the Refinery for a long time. In fact—and as he'd made sure of until today—no one _else_ had either. Certainly not since those fateful two days of early November, 2001.

With a little hum of curiosity, Mr. Gromkee approached the Scream Extractor and bent over it, his hands hovering and touching the apparatus in various places while he inspected. "Well, whenever and however this showed up, it's no recent creation," he said at length. "This machine was built to collect _screams_."

Sulley only nodded, since now he was distracted by something else he'd noticed: the big skylight where the Scream Extractor had been stored was boarded up with metal sheets. Funny; how could this have happened without his prior approval? _It couldn't_ was the simple answer, and with this came the chilling implication that something—small though it may be—was going on behind his back.

_Geez…and I thought getting all paranoid was MIKE'S job…_

Meanwhile, Mr. Gromkee continued his inspection with a broadening smile. "The technology may be old school now, but, my—_what_ a little machine this was!" he enthused. "Sound, sleek, precisely designed…a _very_ impressive prototype, I must say."

Sulley whipped his head toward Mr. Gromkee. "How could you tell that?" he asked, trying to keep his voice even. "About it being a prototype?"

The engineer shrugged. "Been around in the industry long enough to tell these kinds of things," he responded without turning around. "But for what it is, this machine's probable efficiency is _astounding_. It was clearly made to run, and to run _well_ the first go-around." He started rubbing his chin. "The talent behind it's a little raw, I'll admit, but still…this was no slipshod job!" Specs faintly glinting, he turned to face Sulley. "Quite a find here, Mr. Sullivan," he said, giving the Scream Extractor a small pat. "It's just too bad it came to such a violent end, eh?"

Sulley rubbed the side of his neck. "'Violent'?"

"Oh dear, yes!" said Mr. Gromkee, as if the very idea were scandalous. "Ripped from its mechanical arm and tossed, just _tossed_ to the side, right here! A perfectly good machine…" He tsked sharply. "A shame, really, but what can you do? The lack of appreciation these days—frightening. Simply frightening_._"

Sulley took a moment to answer. "…Yeah, pretty scary," he replied absently. Was it just him, or did that shadow behind the Scream Extractor actually…_move_?

Abruptly, and flashing a triumphant smile, Mr. Gromkee snapped his fingers. "By gum, I'm _not_ such an old fool after all!" he said. "I _knew_ this prototype reminded me of someone else's work—a veritable genius, that fellow, and lost to us before his time. A sad story, really. But his name…now, what was it…?"

A _clink_ sounded (soft enough to be out of Mr. Gromkee's limited range), drawing Sulley's attention to the floor. He caught a glimpse of something gleaming just beyond the Scream Extractor's right end—next to three detached (and more recently placed) scream canisters—before it was scooped up by a thin, dark mass and pulled out of sight.

_Okay, _he thought._ That's DEFINITELY not right_.

"Um…Mr. Gromkee…" he started.

The old monster put up a hand. "Hold on, don't stop me yet," he said, eyes squinting at the floor in concentration. "It's on the tips of my tongues…"

As he spoke, part of what looked like a clump of matted, unstyled fur peeked above the freestanding canisters. It rustled slightly, then—with a sharp intake of breath—it jerked to hide behind the machine again.

Sulley's mouth went dry. _It saw me looking back_.

"We don't have _time_ for this, sir," he persisted. He'd tried to put this politely, but his anxiety made it come across as rather annoyed.

"Nonsense, there's plenty of time!" Mr. Gromkee retorted, still completely oblivious to the intruder behind the Scream Extractor—which was, therefore, behind _him_. "His name, his name…it's coming to me, I can feel it…"

The canister nearest to the machine wobbled, followed by a reappearance of the fuzzball head and part of a shoulder. The meaning of this hit Sulley in a flash: the intruder was trying to get away from them, and the _how_ of it was a risky coin toss. If ever there was a time to make a move, it was now.

"_…Almost got it…_" said Mr. Gromkee.

The figure suddenly bolted to the right and Sulley lunged with a strangled yell, his arms stretching to seize the intruder. But its clumsy attempt at flight tipped over the canisters, one in particular rolling straight into the CEO's path—too quick for him to do anything to prevent a bad step. All Sulley could get out was a gasp of surprise before slipping and earning a solid _smack!_ on the back against cold concrete, the wind quite thoroughly knocked out of his furry bulk.

Glancing behind as the tumult subsided, Mr. Gromkee turned around with a befuddled look. He tilted his head toward the felled Sulley, then at the knocked-over canisters. A hand began rubbing the small bump that was his chin.

"Now however did those fall over?" he mused softly.

With a groan, Sulley propped himself up on one elbow and looked into the darkness ahead, just as the intruder's retreating footsteps faded out of earshot. _Shoot!_ And he hadn't even gotten a good look at the guy…

Unsteady, Sulley scrambled onto his feet. "Uh, i-it's my profession opinion that you leave now, sir!" he stammered quickly, thrusting Mr. Gromkee away from the Scream Extractor toward the way they'd come. "Nice tour down here—always a pleasure—I'll get back to you ASAP!"

Mr. Gromkee's eyes swam with thorough confusion. "But the inspection isn't finished yet!" he protested.

"I'll take a rain check on it," Sulley answered, still shoving. "Something's come up."

"But whatever could it be?"

Sulley's neck muscles tensed as he mentally groped for something, _any_thing plausible. "Um… you remember about those cold tweezers I mentioned earlier?"

Pulling out of his grasp, Mr. Gromkee turned to face Sulley with an enlightened, sly expression. "Oh,_ riiiight_," he said, pointing a finger and winking. "Well then in THAT case, I really must be going, eh?"

"Yes, yes, that'd be _great_," Sulley replied. "Now would you please…?"

"Oh, of course, yes," said Mr. Gromkee, scuttling away. "Off I go!"

Sulley accompanied him to the tunnel exit, almost as much out of courtesy as to make sure Mr. Gromkee actually _left_ Sector H—or that nothing would happen to him while obediently doing so. After setting a stubby foot into the passageway, the engineer turned his head to look back at Sulley. "You're certain you'll be all right down here?" he asked.

"I'll be fine," he said emphatically, though still polite. "Now _go_."

"Right, right." He stepped inside and disappeared into the tunnel's gloom. "So long, Mr. Sullivan…!"

"Goodbye, sir." Sulley peered in a few seconds, as though for a last confirmation, and then placed his upper back against the recessed wall next to the tunnel's opening with a strained expression. He eyed the diffused floor and slick, shadowed pipes until a moaning and a sharp _clang_ announced Mr. Gromkee's departure. Good…now it was only _one _monster's problem.

He inhaled deeply, trying to soothe his nerves. After a moment, and with some regained steadiness, he brought out his cell and dialed—not Emergency, but a number almost as familiar to him by now.

One ring, and then the other side picked up. "Mr. Sullivan's office. To whom—?"

"Rosemary, it's me," Sulley rushed. He didn't dare to go much above a whisper. "Please don't say anything, I need you to listen for a minute, okay? Look: when I hang up, you go and call someone from Security to the office—just _one_ monster—and direct them to Sector H of the Refinery." He slowed at the last part, making sure the exact location was communicated. "Just tell 'em I'll meet with them down there. You've got that?"

A moment of stunned silence. "…W-well, yes," she stammered. "Though I'll admit it's a bit unorthodox—"

"Thanks." Promptly, he hanged up and reclipped the cell onto his belt, his gaze fixed upon the dark scenery before him. It was rather rude and he hated ending their exchange like that, but what else could he do? If the circumstances were different, he would've done the smart thing and hightailed it out of Sector H, calling in Security to take care of the intruder themselves. But that course of action risked too much visibility, and Sulley wasn't about to incite panic among his employees—particularly since, as of late, they were demonstrating a serious lack of grace under fire. No; he'd rather take his chances down here to ensure this thing stayed "below the radar", though not alone. He may have been very, _very_ desperate to save the company from more bad press, but he wasn't stupid.

Several deathly quiet moments passed, with the exception of occasional _drip, drips_ of water and groans of settlement. From where he stood, Sulley grew fidgety as his awareness of doing nothing became rather bothersome. Staying put was probably best, he figured, but as he was now he felt woefully under-equipped to be of any help—to himself _or_ any coming aid. Perhaps he should arm himself somehow…yes; he'd go ahead and grab something, but without wandering too far from his current spot. As Sulley thought it, his eyes settled upon some clustered stacks of boxes to his immediate left—not quite against the wall, but with a few scream canisters set on the topmost boxes. Well, one of those would have to do; insufficient, perhaps, but at least it was SOMETHING.

Stepping away from the recessed wall, he crept toward the boxes and cast glances over his shoulder, at the pipe work…just about everywhere. He was so caught up in his wariness that he came upon the stacks with a hushed start. The topmost boxes came up to just below his chin, and the entire cluster creaked and moaned faintly with rotting wood and their incased canisters. Eyes wide, he reached for one of the unpacked canisters on top and gripped it. He turned his head for another brief, backward glance as he lifted it, then, satisfied that nothing was there, he turned back again as he started removing the canister completely—

And stopped in mid-motion. Dumbstruck, Sulley peered into the space revealed behind the canister and felt his lower jaw grow heavy. _No, it couldn't—_

_Gasp, clang—WAM!_

"ARRRGH!" He reeled back and let the offending canister fall with a ringing clatter onto the floor. The pain solid and throbbing, he brought up both hands to nurse his left cheek, brow, and the whole of his nose. Some new noise, however, distracted Sulley enough to lower them and look through fluttering eyes. Several more scream canisters had fallen as something scrambled through them on the topmost boxes, and the wood underneath that something had given a dangerous moan. A moment of tense near-silence passed, and then he watched half-dazedly as the boxes—the whole lot—collapsed onto themselves, a girlish, high-pitched scream sent up among the crashes of shattering wood and suddenly released canisters. When the commotion died away and the risen dust began to settle, he gulped heavily, then dared to step forward for a look. In the crumbled mass lied a small four-limbed figure, its legs and arms splayed before they moved, bending to brace against the pile of debris the figure found itself entangled in. Starkly bare, pinkish flesh shown beneath the dust patches where clothing didn't cover, and under that frizzy, mousy brown head of hair he'd originally seen was a distinctively unremarkable face: two eyes, one nose, one mouth.

A girl…and human. Unmistakably, _undeniably_ human.

A horrible, sinking, sick feeling formed at the pit of Sulley's stomach as he recognized his worst fear as confirmed. _Not again_, he thought despairingly. _This isn't happening…_

After a brief coughing fit, the girl lifted her head to him groggily. She let out a little gasp of realization and began to scramble backward. "You…y-you stay back…" she said, eyes shining with alarm.

Initially uncertain, Sulley bent toward her. "It's okay, I'm—" he started gently, stretching an arm.

"_Stay away!_"

He winced at her vehemence, withdrawing slightly. "But I just wanna help…" he persisted.

"Leave me alone!" She tried to scoot rearward to get up and out, but instead kept slipping down to where she'd started in the mess. The frustration of it all showed in her voice. "I'm just a kid, can't you guys see that?" she charged, panting. "I only want out of this place. Why don't you just _leave me alone?_"

"I don't want to hurt you, you've _gotta_ understand that," he pleaded, starting to wring his hands. Suddenly feeling something wet trickle from his nose, he stopped to touch a hand to the sensation. He pulled it away to see a smear of red on his index finger. The surprise wearing off quickly, he continued with his supplication. "Please. I can help—"

"Well I don't _want_ any of it, okay?" Her words were more stubborn than defiant. "I'm not taking it. So just go away." The girl rolled onto her left side and tried righting herself to sit on her knees. But her left arm gave way under her pushing, so that she could only prop herself up with it in an awkward lounging position. She coughed and squinted, starting to claw at the debris. "This'd be a lot easier with my glasses…" she muttered through gritted teeth.

In his frantic thoughts, her last words struck a cord. Her glasses…yes, that's it! If he could find them for her, she might actually calm down enough to trust him! Stepping back, he said, "Don't move, I'll be right back," then turned without waiting for an answer. Sulley immediately got down on hands and knees and patted the cold floor, his movements shaky and somewhat frenzied. He'd gotten near the tunnel exit before catching a glint out of the corner of his eye, then twisted his neck to the left and crawled quickly in that direction. He stopped before a thick, vertical-running pipe, where a pair of small, unfolded glasses lied at its base. With sudden delicacy, Sulley refolded them and took them up between the claws of his right fingertips. He slipped them onto his belt beside the cell phone as his clipboard suddenly dropped into his line of sight, held several inches from his face.

"You dropped this too, sir."

"Oh, thank you." Sulley took it unthinkingly then froze, blinking. Slowly, he craned his neck upward to see a yellow-suited figure hanging onto the pipe with its right arm and leg while the other two limbs dangled free, simian-like. It looked down at Sulley through a red-tinted visor behind an elongated snout, and the CEO silently gulped at his distorted reflection in the glass. _From bad to worse…_

The CDA agent tilted its head. "James P. Sullivan, I presume," it stated, with no hint of wanting confirmation.

Briefly hesitating, Sulley rose onto his feet. "What're you doing down here?"

"Did you not call for one-monster assistance to report to Sector H of the Refinery?" the agent asked in return. Despite the matter-of-factness of its familiar, speaker-relayed monotone, its voice was distinguished by youth and a slight, masculine rawness of tone.

Sulley looked away, mentally kicking himself for having forgotten about his call to Rosemary. "Well, yeah, except this wasn't exactly what I expected…" he replied meekly.

The male agent's thin body leaned back as he partially wrapped his tail around the pipe. "Then it looks like your lucky day!" he said with a thick, obvious undertone of sarcasm. He then dropped from the pipe, landed with a nimble plop in front of Sulley, and straightened his faintly bowed, longish legs. "Ran into a bit of trouble, huh?"

Sulley realized he was referring to the trail of now-dried blood under his nose. "O-oh, yeah," he said, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish smile. "I had a little, um, run-in with an old scream canister."

"Mmm," he commented pointedly. Sulley couldn't help but notice the disdain his tone suggested, and so was at a loss as the CDA agent (whose number he noted as "00626") bypassed him and began looking around.

"So what was the nature of your encounter with the 'intruder'?" the agent asked, suddenly quite businesslike again.

Sulley rushed to intercept him. "Wait!" he said, standing in the agent's way with his hands (one clutching the clipboard) held up. The CEO then paused as a thought occurred to him, and his expression exchanged its veiled panic for suspicion. "How did you know there was an intruder?" he said, faintly raising a brow.

Number 00626 stiffened and balled his hands into loose fists. "_Because_, Mr. Sullivan," he enunciated, seeming annoyed and self-satisfied at the same time, "we received information on this hours before you even had an inkling of what was going on down here."

Sulley blinked. "Wha…?"

"One of your employees," he elaborated, "a Mr. Grisham McLeod—a.k.a. 'Gruesome'—tipped off our Monstropolis HQ last night around twenty-one hundred hours. Said he saw a human on Laughfloor F during his security watch, but lost track of it when he went for help." He paused significantly, folding his arms. "Interesting stuff, isn't it?"

"Yes…" Sulley said, also folding his arms but out of a twinge of irritation. "Except what's _more_ interesting is that I wasn't informed about any of this first thing."

"And why should you've been?" the agent replied, almost nastily. "That's what _we're_ around for, and the last thing we need is guys like Gruesome running to Mr. Big, Strong CEO for help whenever there's a problem."

Sulley's brows furrowed. "Hey, that's not what I—!"

"_Shhh!_" Number 00626 had lifted a silencing finger, and Sulley could imagine the expression behind the visor to be rather no-nonsense. "Do you _want_ this taken care of or not?" he asked in a hushed voice.

The furry monster averted his eyes and noiselessly ground his teeth. "Well…"

"Look, I'm not here to make a fuss," he said in a more civil tone. "My job is to go about this stuff quietly, so I'll be economical with my time for everyone's sake. I get the human, get out, and nobody gets hurt." He turned and started to walk off, his tapered tail swaying rhythmically. "I'd say that's assurance enough, Mr. Sullivan."

Sulley hastened to catch up. "But humans aren't toxic, I've proved that," he objected as he came alongside the agent. "Even if there's been a security breach, there's no danger—"

"Correction," he interrupted, stopping to face the CEO. "Human _children_ aren't toxic. Whereas what we think we're dealing with right now is quite a bit more…_mature_."

"…'Mature'?"

"Oh yeah. And a little out of even _your_ league, Slugger." He paused, his visor tracing downward to something on Sulley's belt. "Well, I didn't know you needed corrective lenses," he commented in mock offhandedness.

As Number 00626 lifted the girl's glasses with a finger, Sulley jerked out of his reach. "W-well, um, actually…yeah—yeah! I do!" He slid them off the belt and perched them awkwardly on his nose, then held the clipboard to his face. "For reading," he said, tapping the clipped-on papers and grinning lopsidedly.

The agent rubbed his chin. "You don't say," he replied softly. Both hands then dropped to one side, hefting into view an all-too-familiar-looking piece of equipment. "So then, after adjusting the frequency for age…" he said, twisting a couple knobs on the child scanner before pointing its satellite dish-like end toward Sulley, "you wouldn't mind me performing a little scan on 'em…"

His nerves almost getting the better of him, Sulley pushed the scanner aside. "Look, I'm sorry, but I _really_ think you're wasting your time here," he said hurriedly, taking off and putting away the glasses. "There's no human in this factory, I can assure you that, and…well, I think you're a bit late on the uptake in terms of the intruder. He's been gone for awhile, I'm afraid."

Stiffly this time, Number 00626 tilted his head. "You're telling me this _now?_" He seemed hard put to it to keep his cool.

"Well…he probably escaped through the skylight, if that helps any."

The agent shook his head irritably. "That skylight's been sealed for _months_. Not even a gelatinous monster could find a way through without taking explosives to it. Now if you'd kindly let me continue…"

But Sulley _wouldn't_ let him, as the meaning of what the agent had just said sunk in and struck him with a cold realization. _The CDA…they're still messing with things around here!_ The thought of this was enough to melt away Sulley's nerves and let an indignant fury rise up in their place.

"Get out," he hissed.

Slowly, the agent looked up. "_What?_"

"You have no right to be here," he continued, at first deliberate with his words then letting them rush with his anger. "I wasn't informed of an investigation, I did not authorize one, and you've barged into the privacy of _my_ factory without so much as a word to anyone. Government agency or not, I'm _not_ letting your guys off for this kind of deception—"

"And if you think we'd believe you're any better, then you're _VERY_ sadly mistaken!"

The forcefulness of this was so contempt-laden, so accusatory, that Sulley gave way to chagrined calm. The agent had also subdued, and he presently turned his tail to the CEO and ambled to a nearby vertical-running pipe.

"Of course, we understand how much you value this company," Number 00626 spoke, placing a hand on the pipe and pensively tapping it with a fingertip. "We know you'd be the last monster who'd want to see its reputation soiled a second time. Besides," he added, and his tone was suddenly edged with disgust, "we have no problem cleaning up after you, should things go wrong again. No one ever has to know that the great James P. Sullivan goofed while at the helm." Turning, he strode back to Sulley and crawled up an adjacent pipe to get at eyelevel with the furry monster. "So I'd hate to think that, with all we're willing to do on your behalf," he said, leaning into Sulley's face, "you'd have the gall to hide anything from us, _Mr. Sullivan_."

Their gazes remained locked into each other for an instant, the agent's expression invisible and Sulley's decidedly on edge. The abrupt fizzling of a radio shattered the tension.

"_Number Thirty-Five to Number Six-Two-Six, do you copy me? Over._"__

Wordlessly, the agent pressed a button on a small device attached to the side of his head. "Number Six-Two-Six to Number Thirty-Five, I copy you. Over."

"_Number Six-Two-Six, we're in need of your assistance on Laughfloor J_," the tinny voice reported. "_There's a series of possible 23-19s in progress and we're a little short-handed here. Over._"

Number 00626 sighed exasperatedly before switching on his end of the signal. "Copy that, I'll be right there," he answered. "Roger, over and out."

_'Possible 23-19s'…? But those are obsolete now, aren't they?_ Sulley didn't wonder for long, since he snapped back to attention the moment he realized the agent had gone. He soon spotted the yellow suit sauntering along some fifteen yards ahead, then steadily watched after him until the agent stopped just shy of disappearing around a corner. With a supreme air of coolness, Number 00626 twisted his head partway to glance at the furry monster.

"Just so you know," he spoke smoothly, "this isn't over." He turned the corner and was gone.

As though he were an over-inflated balloon, Sulley heaved an immense sigh of relief. He then straightened in realization and took off, weaving through the grounded pipe work while he sought out the pile of broken boxes. In less than a minute, the crumbled mess came into view and he slackened his pace.

"Everything's all right now!" he called out gently. "He's—"

The monster halted in his tracks, seeing only an empty hollow where the girl had once lain in the pile. "Gone," he finished. Turning, Sulley searched with his eyes before taking a step.

"Hello?" he called. "Kid? Where are you?"

A grunt and a whistling of air sounded, and he turned to see something narrow and solid heading straight for his head. Not a moment too soon, he caught the object by its end with his right hand, and—realizing who the attacker was—mentally acknowledged the fact that his reflexes had been quicker this time around.

The human girl dangled at the pipe's other end, struggling fiercely and grunting between outbursts of "Put me down!" while Sulley watched on with a bored look. Several seconds passed and, seeming to grasp that her efforts were useless, she calmed enough to stop kicking and simply hang there. Her expression, however, was still set in a resentful scowl.

"I _will_ put you down," he told her, stern yet still kindly. "But you've gotta promise me you won't run away once I do it. All right?"

She didn't say anything, but nodded "yes".

"Okay…" Carefully, he lowered the pipe until the girl's feet touched the floor. She kept a steady eye on him and slipped her hands off her end, then abruptly turned and made a break for it.

"Hey, hold it!" Sulley reached and caught her by the right shoulder. She struggled a second time as he spun her around, trying mightily to loose herself from his grip.

"Let me go! Let me go!" she protested, before turning to a vicious, desperate shout. "_Help me! Somebody help—!_"

He cut off the girl with a clamped hand over her mouth. "Please, _please_ calm down," he pleaded, simultaneously remembering as he held her in place to be gentle, lest he should inadvertently hurt her. "I don't wanna hurt you, and I never did. But if anyone like the guy who was just down here ever finds out about you, we'll _both_ be as good as dead!"

Upon hearing this, she stopped moving and looked up at him. "Mmph-mph?" Sulley translated this muffled query as, "Really?"

"Yeah," he answered, suddenly not feeling so rigid. "…So, are you gonna stay put now?"

The girl nodded, and this time he knew that she meant it. Sulley released her completely, then, noticing the way she squinted up at him, remembered he still had her glasses.

"Oh! I found these for you," he said, taking the glasses from his belt and handing them to her. "Sorry about the one ear thing. It's kinda bent."

She held them in her hands a moment before putting them on. "It's okay, they'll probably fit better this way," she told him with understated, self-deprecating sarcasm. Settling the glasses on her face, she looked up and blinked, her eyes fleetingly wide as she clearly took in Sulley's form for the first time.

The girl raised her brows, eyes now lidded. "Heh. So _you_ were what freaked me out all this time…" Her shoulders slack, she turned from him and walked to a nearby pipe, against which she slumped until she sat with bent legs on the floor.

Sulley arched a brow, sensing something was troubling her. Concerned, and somehow feeling partly responsible for her present mood, he strode to the girl and stooped down on her right side. "Kid—"

"Devon," she said, looking him square in the face. "Devon Vega."

"Devon…" he corrected himself. "What is it that you want?"

She turned her head, shrugging. "To go home, I guess," she answered, sounding weary. "It's the only thing that makes sense now."

As peculiar as that last sentence struck him, Sulley shook it off to possibly deal with later. "Well, that's what I want for you, too," he said. "And I'm gonna find a way to get you back. For both our sakes." He'd almost held out on those last words, but was relieved to find that the instant he said them, he knew he meant it.

She looked at him again, this time her gaze tinged with pessimism. "That's nice of you, it really is," she told him. "But just _how_ are we gonna go about doing that?"

This gave Sulley pause: she had a good point. It was too risky to attempt sneaking her into the Door Vault, and even IF he could manage that, it would take _hours_ to find an appropriate door—time which, with the CDA swarming and snooping about, he did not have. And hiding her down here was out of the question; the Refinery was no place for someone like her to stay for prolonged periods of time. And what if that "00626" guy came back? No—she'd have to come with him to the apartment and hide there until he could find a door. He was quite sure, of course, that Mike would NOT be the most eager to take her in to their "humble abode". But even _that_ was secondary to the fact that Sulley still had to work out a way to get Devon _out_ of the factory.

_Yet another thing for my "To Do" list…_ he mused resignedly; then stopped as this line of thinking gave him an idea. Yes…perhaps his "To Do" list _could_ save the day after all!

"You know what," he said aloud, "I just may've figured out 'step one' of the plan."

Devon raised a brow at him as the furry monster's face grew sly.

* * *

Whew! A long one, but very important, I promise. And for those of you who're wondering what's happened to Randall—don't worry, I certainly haven't forgotten about him. This story is just taking longer to develop than I'd expected…

VOICE TALENT REPORT:_…and it's Mel Gibson by a landslide!_ Many, many thanks for all your votes! You'll start seeing the fruits of your labors after the next couple of chapters, when I start posting those mini-profiles of my original characters in my Author Profile thingy. Meanwhile, have fun thinking up talents for the new contestants, and perhaps help troubleshoot with some older ones while you're at it.

Hope you enjoyed this chappie! And don't forget to drop off a review on your way out!


	6. Déjà Vu, Part II

HOMECOMING

**By Light Rises**

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**Author's Note:** After a lengthy absence (since the Prolog, actually), Janis is making her big re-entrance into the story this chapter! YAY! I'm also experimenting with a new summary format, which is hopefully more interesting than the static one. And as always, many, MANY thanks for the reviews!

**Disclaimer: **O'Ferrell, Niner, Kage, Megnon, Mrs. Vandross, and Team Red belong to me. Ms. Bolt is, in part, also my creation, but I must give credit to the wonderful Ralph "Eggman" Eggleston of Pixar for the artwork which inspired her character. For those of you who have _The Art of Monsters, Inc._ book, you can find Eggleston's illustration of "The Landlady" on page 126.

**Time:** The same day (Monday, April 14, 2003), a couple hours later from where we last left off.

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Chapter 5 – Déjà Vu, Part II

"…'Overdue', 'overdue', 'evicted'…ugh, these swine…'overdue'…"

The female voice muttered to itself in a small room adjacent to the vestibule of Screamster Apartments. Letting little of the fading sunlight in through the shuttered blinds above her desk, the landlady worked by the glow of a computer screen. She squinted at the spreadsheet presently displayed on the monitor, her expression fixed in an air of perpetual sourness as she sat with her slug form awkwardly draped over a chair. _Tap, tappity, tap_…she stopped typing a moment to look at her nails, then made a disgusted grimace as she realized the polish was starting to chip. A sneer curling her upper lip, she clicked to highlight a cell on the spreadsheet and began typing "evicted" where some unfortunate tenant only held the "overdue" status.

The sound of a turning doorknob perked her attention. Growling crossly, she swiveled toward the direction of the opening door with a hot glare—which, upon seeing just WHO'D entered, melted away into utmost friendliness.

"Mr. Sullivan!" she enunciated, her words honeyed. "You're early today!"

Backing into the vestibule with a large bundle of clothes gathered in his arms, Sulley glanced to his left to catch her eye. "Oh, hi, Ms. Bolt," he replied through a partial muffle. "Yeah…I decided to take some personal time and run a couple errands. I mean, this stuff's been sitting at the dry cleaner's for two weeks now, and…well, y'know, these things don't take care of themselves if I won't."

"Well, good for you!" Ms. Bolt lurched out of the chair to approach him, her intensely fake smile broad enough to shatter glass. "And…my, whatever happened to Mr. Top Comedian?" she queried.

"Mike? He won't be back 'til late tonight: he's going with Claws to catch a movie. Lydia says she wants him there to make sure Claws doesn't see anything above 'PG'."

The landlady let out a shrill, forced giggle. "Too bad, Mike really is a darling." Hooding her eyes suggestively, she stroked one of Sulley's furry arms. "…Of course, he's not nearly as cute as _you_," she purred.

His teeth clenched, Sulley pulled away from her as her walking fingers began to ascend toward his shoulder. "U-um, well, I _really_ should get upstairs with these."

"Oh, do you need help?" Ms. Bolt asked. "Because I'd be very happy to call down Howey and—"

"No no no, I'm fine!" Sulley assured hastily. He ignored the fact that she had more than ample muscle mass to help him herself, if she'd really wanted to. "I'll just take the elevator."

"Then you'll need the key card." She reached into a pocket of her pink apron and extracted a card. Before handing it to him, however, she stopped short, letting it hang almost tantalizingly between a thumb and index finger. "I trust you understand how well Screamster Apartments treats you and Mr. Wazowski, hm?" she said smoothly. "Use of the elevator is _very_ exclusive, you know."

Sulley sighed, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "Yes, yes, I know. And it's very…charitable of you."

With a small grin, Ms. Bolt finally proffered the card and he took it between the tips of two claws. He'd barely turned to walk away when she piped up again:

"Just keep that in mind when you need sponsors for those fancy, high-profile business functions, all right?"

With his back turned to her, Sulley could afford a frown. "Is that all I'm good for?" he muttered.

"What was that you said?"

"Uh, I'll think about it! Sounds swell—peachy. In fact, I'll get right on it!"

"_Gooood_," she remarked, sounding overly-pleased. "Have a nice evening, Mr. Sullivan."

"You, too." He glowered again, making sure this time his mutterings were out of earshot. "Way to lay it on thick, Sullivan…" he chided himself.

"…Hmm, perhaps he was laying it on a bit thick just now." Ms. Bolt pondered on this a moment, tapping a finger on the knot of skin under her mouth. "_Naaah!_ When it comes to getting something I want, I'm almost impossible to resist!" Briefly fluffing her beehive hairdo, she slid back into the room and repositioned herself on the chair in front of the computer monitor and keyboard. "Now, where were we? Oh yes—I should start printing out those eviction notices." She paused, cocking an eye ridge at the still-displayed spreadsheet. "Lucky for some of you, I'm in a good mood now…" she mumbled before closing the file.

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A trip up an elevator and down two hallways later, Sulley managed to force his apartment door open with his load still securely in tow. As the door shuddered in his wake, he emerged into a noticeably better-furnished living room than it had been over a year ago. He backtracked to close the door—making sure to bolt it, too—then made a beeline for his room. Unlike the rest of the apartment, Sulley's room had undergone not a whit of change, with the exception of a newer TV set which sat on the two old cinder blocks and a piece of plywood next to his closet. At last satisfied that he was in the clear, Sulley gently dumped the load onto his bed and trudged to his dresser. He stood there, trying to catch his breath as he laid an arm on top of the furniture piece.

Abruptly, a bit of cloth in the dry-cleaned bundle moved, as though something were hesitant to poke its way through. "Is it safe yet?" a timid voice ventured.

Sulley nodded. "Yeah, it's safe," he answered between pants.

The topmost layer of cloth bulged and then was thrown off—revealing Devon with a more desheveled mop of hair than usual and a pair of askew glasses. Sitting up, she pushed the latter back up the bridge of her nose and readjusted them.

"_Whew_...that was...something." The disbelief in her tone matched the wide-eyed, unfocused look on her face. After a moment, she trained her gaze on Sulley. "Who was that downstairs?. It sounded like a lady."

"Ms. Bolt," he explained, his breath coming easy to him again. "She's our landlady, and she's..." He started rubbing the back of his neck. "Well, she's—"

"Friendly." After what seemed like a moment's reflection, Devon crinkled her nose. "_Really_ friendly..." She raised an eyebrow at him. "Is...that normal?"

"More so than I'd like," Sulley replied, sighing. "And it's mostly because she's not the only one who's 'friendly' with me."

Snorting, Devon began to crawl out of the clothing and onto Sulley's bed. "Sometimes, I almost wish that _was_ my problem."

Sulley chuckled bittersweetly. "Believe me, it's not as glamorous as it sounds." He then stopped as he noticed the girl's expression, which was self-absorbed and tinged with a sense of...something like longing, or perhaps regret? Either way, he couldn't get a foothold on why she presently felt this way and so couldn't find mutual ground on which to empathize with her. All he could do was lure her away from that mood by getting her mind on something else, something more pressing.

Walking toward the bed and then moving the clothes aside with a nudging sweep of his arm, Sulley took a seat beside Devon, whose legs now dangled off the bed's edge while she sat bent over. "But I shouldn't be complaining," he said. "What's important now is trying to figure out a way to get you home, and that means I need to find out some things from _you_ first—about how you got here, I mean. Do you think you're up to it?"

Devon shrugged. "Sure. Fire away."

"All right..." He cleared his throat. "First, do you remember around what time you got into the factory?"

"Well, it _was_ about five 'o clock Sunday morning before I went through the door, but that...that squid guy on the other side was talking about it being night..." She scratched her head, looking rather perplexed. "Whatever day it is now, it happened last night."

"Today's Monday," he informed. "So if it was early Sunday morning _your_ time and Sunday night _here_..." Sucking in his bottom lip, he quickly counted the hours on his fingers. "That'd be a...fifteen-hour difference! Which means you're from the West Coast of the U.S., right?"

The girl nodded.

"Then it was eight o' clock last night," he reasoned. Good. That was around the time first-shift Security was scheduled to check Laughfloors A through F, and it was consistent with what little information CDA Agent Number 00626 had offered about the security guard's call. "Now, where on the West Coast are you from?"

"Edgewood, California."

Sulley's face brightened. "Edgewood? That's a pretty nice community," he commented cheerfully.

But his cheerfulness backfired. Grimacing, Devon gagged in disgust. "Ugh! Only if you like a bunch of little snobs with something stuck up their rear ends!"

Sulley blinked, taken aback. Not only didn't he expect such a negative reaction, but he also wasn't prepared for the bluntness of the mental image she'd brought up. Obviously, it wouldn't be an easy task to strike up an idle, friendly conversation with this kid—or at least not the kinds he often had with an increasingly talkative Boo.

"_Okaaay_...how about what the door looked like?" he tried. "Do you remember that?"

Staring at the floor with furrowed brows, Devon's left hand disappeared into a side pocket of her coveralls. "It was this old, wooden, beaten thing," she murmured slowly as she fished out something from the pocket which glinted fleetingly before she cupped it into both hands, shielding most of the object from view. "Just an ugly old door with a junky frame," the girl went on, her thumbs subconsciously rubbing the smooth surface of whatever-it-was she held. "Until I was stupid enough to open it, that is."

Sulley's brows raised for an instant. _...But—if you will pardon the cliché—not all is as it appears._ Apparently, the tired concept was no less foreign to the Human World than it was to his own.

"You shouldn't kick yourself over it," he advised kindly. "Heck, I got myself into a mess the same way."

When she looked his way with questioning eyes, Sulley went stiff with the realization that he'd said too much. Of course, now that he thought about it, it wasn't like she _could_ blab to anyone even if he told her the entire story. But his faint pang of guilt was telling enough of someone who'd been lying for so long, that the first time he actually slipped—albeit in front of a human—had been sufficient to make him feel like "the jig was was up."

Well, it figured that's the kind of price he'd pay for finally capturing this strange girl's interest.

"Some pretty serious stuff went down," he continued as an answer, still a bit at the mercy of his nerves. "But everything turned out all right in the end, and I'm sure what we're in now will be no different."

Seeming satisfied with this explanation, Devon looked down at what Sulley finally discerned to be a circular, metallic object. "I guess..." Her gaze then flicked upward to his. "Now I've got a question for _you._"

Sulley started, somewhat stunned. For some reason, it hadn't really occurred to him that the girl would—or perhaps even _could—_ask a question on his level, as though they were equal partners on the "scheme" they were cooking up. Sure, he expected the ones asked out of curiosity, but THIS...well, to _him_ at least, it was something.

"Okay," he said, a little unsure but nonetheless interested in hearing what she had to say. "What is it?"

Devon looked away again, her expression thoughtful. "That place underground with the pipes, where you found me..." she began, rubbing the metallic object more intensely than before. "There was a machine I was hiding behind, and you and that other...guy, the older one, you two were talking about it. He said it could 'collect screams'..." Her specs gleamed as she looked up at Sulley. "What was that all about?"

For an uncomfortable moment, all Sulley could offer was a blank look. What could he tell her? How? And why in Monstropolis did her question have to be about _THAT?!_

Finally, he let out a shaky chuckle. "That machine?" he said, then shook his head. "It's just old technology—obselete. Not really something you need to worry about."

The girl's gaze was suddenly touched with urgency. "But the 'screams'..." Her eyes wandered before meeting his again. "I mean, I might not get a chance to find out about this kind of stuff again. Please, if you know _something—_"

"_It doesn't matter_," he insisted, gentle yet firm. Regarding her for several seconds, he raised a furry brow in inquisitiveness. "Why is this so important to you? It's only a machine."

She sighed, turning from him. "I know, I know," she admitted in a quiet voice. "I'd kinda hoped...well, I'd thought that, maybe, there was something _in it_ that was worth taking home with me. Something about it that would finally make me feel like I'd done something worthwhile, that I hadn't wasted my time chasing another rainbow only to come up empty." She paused, shrugging. "I dunno, it was weird...when I touched that machine, I suddenly _knew_ that, if I could just learn more about it, I wouldn't feel so alone all the time. That maybe I'd finally feel _whole_..."

Sulley frowned—feeling horrible since he knew this kid was practically bearing her soul, yet everything she was saying had flown right over his head.

His gaze sad, Sulley placed a hand on her left shoulder. "I'm sorry, Devon, but we've gotta keep our focus on getting you out of here. It's just too dangerous to worry about anything else, and I'm afraid there might not be a lotta time for us as it is. Do you understand that?"

Devon glanced at him, blowing the bangs from her eyes. "Yeah, yeah..." she muttered distractedly. Suddenly, the metallic object she held slipped from her fingers, falling to the floor as she emitted a startled gasp and futilely stretched her arms to catch it. Upon impact, the object's tiny side latch clicked undone so that it opened into two circular halves—one containing a watch face, and the other with some sort of photo. A pocket watch.

Sulley straightened. "Oh, let me get that for you," he offered, bending to retrieve it.

Without warning, Devon shrieked a "NO!" and lunged off the bed, snatching up the watch before Sulley's hand reached it first. He flinched, withdrawing from the girl slightly as he gaped at her. She returned the stare with a vicious, warning look.

"_Nobody EVER touches this!_" she shouted passionately, the watch clutched to her chest as though held onto for dear life. "_Ever!_" She took a couple backward steps, then, after gently clicking the watch closed, she got back on the bed and crawled across to the corner farthest from where Sulley stood, which was the upper right-hand portion next to his bedside dresser with the alarm clock perched on top. There, Devon swung her legs over the bed's edge and hunched protectively, her bent back to the furry monster.

Sulley's loss for words kept things uncomfortably silent. At length, he made a step toward the girl. "Devon, I...I didn't—" he started apologetically.

"Just get me out of here," she murmured. Her tone was laced with a much darkened mood. "Get me home."

He gave a slow nod and turned, walking out of the room and carefully closing the door behind him. A sigh escaped his lips while he stood there with his hand on the knob, and then he trudged to his new reclining chair and sagged into it. It was strange: even when Sulley had done everything he could to avoid Boo, the toddler had stuck to him like glue; and now his deliberate, genuine attempts at being amiable toward Devon kept blowing up in his face. Then again, she and Boo _were_ two different people, and the latter was too little at the time he first met her to understand what the heck she was getting herself into. Still, he couldn't get over how dissimilar those two were...

...Or, rather, how MUCH one particular girl reminded him of someone he once knew—

Sulley halted that line of thinking immediately. _No! Devon is NOTHING like Randall!_ But even to himself he wasn't very convincing, and it felt like almost every other time Randall came to mind: that Sulley was running away from a foregone conclusion which he was well-aware of deep-down yet was still unwilling to admit.

With sudden decision, he stood up from the chair. He needed to get out, but he couldn't leave Devon here alone. There _was_ a vending machine on the ground floor, though...yes, he'd get a snack and come right back! That way, he wouldn't stray too far and he'd still have a chance to clear his head, even if only for a brief few minutes.

He went to the door of his room, calling, "I'm going downstairs, I'll be right back. Just stay put, okay?" Politely, he waited for an answer although he wasn't too surprised to hear nothing in return. Sulley then strode to the apartment entrance and placed a hand on the doorknob, glancing toward the direction of his bedroom before turning the knob and starting to proceed outside—

"Whoa, Sul, watch your load! You almost plowed right into me!"

Sulley froze as he looked down to see whom it was. His eyes bulged out in shock.

"M-_Mikey?!_"

"No, it's the Queen of Phlegmgland—of _course_ it's me, ya lummox!" Mike stepped past him and into the apartment's living room. "Hunh; I really didn't think you'd be the Early Bird getting home today, but you surprised me. Oh, and by the way—thanks for taking care of my baby. I don't think she can stand for any more bad driving, if ya catch my drift."

Still holding the door open, Sulley gawked at his roommate. "Wh...what happened to the movie?" he sputtered.

"Oh, that? It was going swell until I joked to Claws in line about how Mary Retcher was gonna make some heads roll as 'Shasta the Conquerer', eh heh heh heh..." His laughter died away on an uneasy note. "_Yeeeaaah_....sooo, Lydia gave me a ride home."

"But..." Sulley clutched a hand to his head while the fingers of the other went to his mouth. No, no, this was all _wrong!_ Mike was here too early, and he hadn't had enough time to think of a way to soften Mike up to the idea of sheltering yet _another_ illegal human. What to do, what to do...?

Sulley was brought out of his fretful thoughts by Mike's sudden gravitation toward the direction of their bedrooms. "WAIT!"

Mike stopped, turning to face him. "What?"

The furry monster looked away shyly. "Um...where're you going?"

"To the little monster's room." Mike arched his single eye ridge, taking on a slightly peeved expression. "Shall I announce when I'm heading for the fridge, too? Or sitting in my chair?"

"No no no," Sulley replied. "I was only, uh, curious." He flashed a cheesy grin.

Mike blinked. "_Allllrighty_..." As he continued into the bathroom, Sulley heard him mumble, "Note-to-Self: make sure Sul lays off the junk grubs!"

Once he was sure Mike had gone in, Sulley finally shut the apartment door. _Devon_...he needed to hide her, probably in his closet (which, considering what he used to do for a living, was somewhat ironic). It wasn't the greatest plan, but he needed to buy some time before he hit Mike with the bombshell. Since the last thing Sulley wanted right now was for that shell to self-deploy...

He swept around at the sudden knocking on the door. Visitors? No; NOT a good time! He stomped toward the door, the discouraging words already flying out of his mouth as he opened it:

"I'm sorry, but you'll have to come back ano—"

"Sulley?"

The rest of what he had to say froze on his lips. "_Janis?_" He broke into an uneasy smile, feeling a peculiar sense of delight rise up alongside his anxiety. "I-I wasn't expecting you—"

"Didn't think you would," the lizard monster replied with a mischievous smirk. "I'd like to say I was just in the neighborhood, but, well...that would be fibbing, now wouldn't it?"

In spite of himself, Sulley laughed. "I've gotta admit, this is a pretty, uh, pleasant surprise."

Janis snorted. "It'd better be," she said in a noticeably annoyed tone. "I almost didn't get up here, what with Miss Personality manning the helm downstairs. I was lucky to've gotten through the front door."

"But there shouldn't have been any problems," Sulley remarked, frowning. "If you're here to visit, all Ms. Bolt wants is for you to intercom me first to confirm and—"

Janis' pointed, faintly incredulous expression stopped him. "Sulley," she said, tilting her head with folded arms, "what color is the sky in _your_ world?"

He took note of her salmon-hued scales and, belatedly recognizing her point, felt terrible chagrin. "_Oh_...Janis, I'm so sorry..."

She waved a dismissive hand, shutting her eyes. "Forget about it," she spoke with a sigh. "I'd thought I was too old to expect any better, but..." She placed an arm on the door frame and leaned against it, her gaze momentarily downcast. "Then again, I have a tendency to surprise even myself."

In the background, a toilet flushed followed by a merry, high-pitched humming. Almost with a start, Sulley remembered his situation and gritted his teeth at what he had to do. "What I meant to say before was, 'I'm so sorry you had to go through all this trouble,' because, well..." Again came the cheesy grin, only it was less strained since it was truly apologetic. "I'm kinda busy with something right now."

As he started to close the door, Janis pushed against his momentum. "Whoa, hold on," she said, obviously keeping her irritation at bay, "can't you step away from it for a few minutes?"

Sulley shook his head vigorously as he pushed back. "Believe me—_it can't wait._"

Janis had opened her mouth to rebuke when the light patter of Mike's feet sounded. "Hey, buddy, I think I left my mike in your room," the green monster called. "You don't mind if go in and check—?"

"_No!_" Sulley paused, his mind rushing. "It's probably not in there; I would've found it by now!"

"Sulley, who IS that?" Janis had pushed in again when the opening between door and door frame shrunk to a crack.

Mike looked Sulley's way. "Sul, I only lost it this morning," he answered. "And I'm sure I used it to get your furry slab out of bed. So if you'll excuse _moi_—"

"Mikey!" With a final shove, Sulley won the door tug-of-war and slammed it shut. He pursued Mike with shouts of, "No, Mike! STOP...!"

One thing Sulley had failed to do, though, was lock the door behind him. With a slight creak, Janis opened it partway and peered in, looking over the apartment shrewdly. Noises of argument were muffled now, since the action had moved to another room. Her gaze then rested on a hallway which led off to the bedrooms—the only area of the apartment she couldn't readily see.

Janis narrowed her eyes and allowed a faint smile to touch her lips. "Hmm.... Maybe I'm only fueling my paranoid delusions, _but_..." She then did something only a handful of lizard monsters could manage successfully: she vanished out of sight, softly closing the door with an invisible tail as she slithered inside to investigate.

-------------------------

Meanwhile, Devon had started pacing the bedroom since Sulley's departure, pocket watch in hand to stroke for comfort. Her mind buzzed and fretted, unwilling to give her rest, and it was due to her newfound host more than anything. And it wasn't so much that she didn't know what to make of this Sulley (the name by which he'd insisted she call him) as it was the way he carried himself. In short, he was _unbelievably_ frustrating.

She couldn't help feeling a tad guilty, too, since she was familiar with people like him—cheery, all-around nice folks who meant well and had good intentions, but always rubbed Devon the wrong way with their misguided "pity" toward her. Edgewood Junior High's principal, Mrs. Vandross, had been such a type: more than anything, she'd wanted to be the "good guy" and enjoy popularity among the student body for understanding its needs. But when it came to dealing with Devon—whether discussing her poor grades or bouts of misbehavior—Mrs. Vandross proved endlessly infuriating.

The "You Need to Apply Yourself" speeches were bad enough; Devon couldn't count how many times she'd heard THAT one. However, Mrs. Vandross managed to cross the line and did so (though unintentionally) in one of the worst ways possible. One day in her office, once the standard lecture was out of the way, she'd asked Devon if there were any "problems at home". The statement had touched a nerve and Devon completely flew off the handle at her, angry that _anyone_ could think such a thing about her family. Unfortunately, this reaction had been the proverbial drop which broke the dam: by the next day, all of Devon's teachers had heard about her supposed "home troubles" and started looking upon her with overt sympathy, clicking their tongues and shaking their heads whenever they saw her. To top it off, since they already had rather low opinions of Devon (unlike Mrs. Vandross, they sincerely believed she _had_ no future), their sympathy came across as condescending—the worst and most humiliating kind of pity. Till this day, Devon had refused to forgive her for letting that happen—in some ways, she felt like she _couldn't_. Perhaps it might've been different if Mrs. Vandross had extended the olive branch, had said she was sorry for causing those months of misery, but no; up until graduation day, she'd failed to utter even a single word of apology. If nothing else, _that_, in Devon's book, was simply unforgivable.

She'd been reflecting on all this when the commotion started: raised voices, one of which was unfamiliar and whiny in tone, coupled with a confused closing and slamming of doors, and even the flushing of a toilet thrown in for good measure. Already a good deal antsy, Devon swung into full panic mode when the voices seemed to be just outside the bedroom, Sulley's booming one trying to dissuade the whiny one from entering. After about twenty seconds, they'd seemed to move the "discussion" elsewhere—still very close, but more muffled and not about to spill over into here quite yet.

Devon, all the while, had started pacing the room more rapidly. She tried to force herself to _think_, to _act_, but for all the effort only found her left thumb rubbing the watch more aggressively. With a groan, she tucked it into a coverall pocket; of all the things she lacked, "fast-thinking" was one of several which she lamented most not having. Especially now.

She was about to make a run for the closet, desperate for cover, when something like rustling caught her ear. The back of her neck prickling with a sudden chill, she stood stock-still under the crushing realization of being watched. If she was caught, then what was there left to do? Surrender? She could try running, but what room did she have for that? And going for the door when someone already stood between her and it was a long shot at best. Something in the back of Devon's head told her to turn around, and with nothing else to lose, she obeyed that impulse. She turned.

One of the last things she expected—although was ecstatic—to see was a single, three-fingered depression on Sulley's left pillow caused by an invisible weight. A sharp gasp sounded, and then the impression disappeared as movement like soft padding ensued on the wall above the bed's headboard and beyond. As the invisible thing reached the door (which was already a crack open) and began making a hasty exit, Devon felt the urgency and chanced a cry of, "Randall, wait!"

Abruptly, the movement stopped. Then a lengthy piece of empty space at the top of the door fleshed itself into view—revealing not Randall, but a similar-looking lizard creature with peach-colored scales, red speckles, and a coppery head of hair. One hand was on the door and its gray eyes presently looked Devon's way, swimming with confusion.

"Randall?" the creature echoed questioningly, its voice feminine. She smoothly maneuvered down along the door's frame and turned toward Devon, standing upright like Randall but on six legs instead of four. Her gaze was still confused, yet beneath that Devon could sense a flicker of recognition. But wouldn't that mean—?

"...Honestly, Sulley, I don't see any reason _why_ I can't have a look-see in your—!" The whiny voice paused as its owner—a short, green, cyclopean creature shaped like a beach ball—stepped into the bedroom beside the female lizard creature. His mouth fell open at the sight of Devon. "...Room," he finished faintly.

A frantic thumping of feet drew near. "Mikey, _please_, you don't underst—AAAHH!" Sulley had appeared in the doorway and now gawked at the scene before him with rising dread etched on his face. He looked from Devon to "Mikey", whose bottom eyelid was twitching, to the lizard creature. The latter crossed her arms, scowling up at the furry creature.

"If you have a good explanation for this," she said in utmost seriousness, "I'd _love_ to hear it."

Sulley cracked a nervous smile. And the green creature promptly—and quite unceremoniously—fainted.

-------------------------

_**Two Hours Earlier...**_

"'_23-19s'?!_"

The furious scream resounded throughout the empty, metallic halls underground. The facility from which the scream originated was located deep in the bowels of the Monstropolis CDA Headquarters, a sector which belonged to a previous technological era and had been abandoned for decades. Abandoned, that is, until Team Red made the old facility its home base.

Presently, in what had been the old "Wreck Room", the screamer leaned threateningly over another monster, both of which—like everyone else in the room—were uniformed in their standard-issue, yellow CDA suits. The screamer's number was "04509", and the one he was angry at was "00035".

"I-I'm sorry, Four-Five-Oh-Nine," Number 00035 babbled, visibly cringing. "But i-it was the only thing I could think of off the top of my head—"

"An obsolete code?! _That's _the best you could DO?!" Number 04509 growled as he turned from Number 00035, curling the tip of his tentacle into a fist. "Now do you see why I _hate_ these 'rank-and-file' prissies?" he questioned loudly, apparently addressing the entire room.

"Aw, give it a rest, Niner!" snapped a female agent, seated with four others at a table playing a game of cards. "If nothing else, guys like him'll give us extra monster-power if and when the time comes."

Niner exhaled gruffly. "That don't make 'em any less annoying," he grumbled.

From the room's shadowed perimeters, a small agent with four arms and a single pair of legs stepped into view. "It's my fault, Niner," he said, his tone soft-spoken yet firm. "_I_ should've taken the initiative and radioed Six-Two-Six myself."

"Yeah, you should've," Niner replied curtly. "Your 'bosom buddy' along with that half-wit Thirty-Five coulda blown our whole operation outta the water."

"Which is _precisely_ why I ordered for Six-Two-Six to be pulled out of the Refinery in the first place," the other retorted, keeping his cool. "Though, again, I'll admit I should've been the one who radioed. As it is, I don't think Six-Two-Six will report down here in a very,uh, agreeable mood."

"_That's just great_," Niner groused sarcastically. He then contorted a tentacle so its tip could reach back to scratch near his tailbone. "Gah, and this suit is so itchy! Why in Monstropolis can't we take these things _off?_"

The small agent sighed. "Megnon's orders," he said. "It's for confidentiality—to protect against needlessly revealing identities."

Niner snorted. "Oh, as if everyone doesn't already KNOW each other—_O'Ferrell_," he answered, shoving the small agent as he spoke the last part. Several others in the room couldn't resist a few snarky chuckles.

Backpedaling a couple steps, O'Ferrell halted and straightened his crooked visor. "What I _meant_ was that the rule protects against needlessly revealing _certain_ identities, such as that of Megnon himself and—"

"Agent Six-Two-Six," Niner interrupted in a singsong tone. "Mr. Mysterious, Cool-as-It-Comes, blah blah blah...yeah, I get the point." He emitted a sudden, evil laugh. "And Mr. Cool is in trouble for _losin'_ his cool..."

"_Not_ if Megnon doesn't hear about it," O'Ferrell noted pointedly. "So I won't have anyone breathing a word of what happened in the Refinery, understand?" He turned to face the remainder of the agents. "_Everyone...?_"

They exchanged glances and soon mumbled their reluctant consents, Niner included and the most begrudging of them all. The peace, however, didn't last long.

"And about that suit rule," piped up another female agent, coming across as rather shrill, "isn't it self-defeating? I mean, since we use our radios to talk, then what's stopping some other CDA dope from picking up our frequency? We'd be caught with our pants down!"

There were some murmurs of concern before a new male voice quelled them all:

"We _won't_ be if we use our speakers down here like we're supposed to. Otherwise, there's no need to discuss Team Red plans while on duty."

Heads turned to see the new arrival. "Well, lookie who's here!" Niner drawled tauntingly as Number 00626 stalked toward his general direction. "The Refinery scene a little too hot for you to handle, eh?"

"I'm not in the mood, Niner," Number 00626 said briskly as he stopped beside O'Ferrell. "All _I'm_ interested in is finding out who the heck called me down. And just _what_ was with the whole '23-19' thing?"

In unison, gloved fingers, claws, etc. around the room pointed at Number 00035. "It was his idea!" they accused simultaneously.

"Oh, PLEASE don't hurt me!" Number 00035 pleaded even as he cowered. "I'm only a bureaucrat!"

"That's quite enough!" O'Ferrell bristled, which sparked the immediate effect of stunned silence. Clearing his throat, he said more calmly, "Six-Two-Six, I think we should have a private talk concerning this, uh, matter. If you'll come with me..."

Number 00626 obeyed wordlessly, following O'Ferrell out of the Wreck Room into a short hallway which led to the old gymnasium. Once inside, O'Ferrell tried flipping on the lights and only one of the fluorescent bars above glowed to life. It bathed everything in a ghostly pall, a sharp contrast to the yellow, oily iridescence which lit the Wreck Room.

"What's this all about, O'Ferrell?" Number 000626 asked suddenly, turning to face the other agent. "Who pulled me out of the Refinery?"

O'Ferrell sighed. "_I_ was the one who ordered it, I'm afraid."

Number 00626 stiffened. "But why—?"

"I know what you were trying to do down there." O'Ferrell's voice had changed from regretful to stern and reprimanding.

The long-tailed agent shrugged. "What? Megnon told me to investigate Monsters, Incorporated's CEO and to get the scoop on last night's call about a possible security breach, and that's _exactly_ what I've been doing. You listened in on the show just a while ago—there IS a human running around, and Sullivan's still lying through his teeth." He paused, continuing more tensely, "He _knew_ about that human, O'Ferrell. It was another dirty little secret of his, and we could've nailed him for it!"

"And that's the rub, I fear," O'Ferrell said. "You pursued condemning Sullivan right then and there—which, I must point out, was NOT part of the original mission, and in fact would've undermined our entire operation."

Poignantly, Number 00626 stretched out his arms. "I had him squirming; he was _this close_ to cracking—!"

"You were outside your right—"

"I almost had him, O'Ferrell—"

"—You exceeded mission parameters—"

"—_I almost had him!_"

"You jeopardized everything we've been working for!" O'Ferrell had caught hold of Number 00626's shoulders, and now made sure his visor looked straight into the other's. "If you had pursued your course with Sullivan and Megnon found out about it, we would've _both_ been labeled as traitors. And_ both_ just as good as dead."

As O'Ferrell's words sunk in, Number 00626 turned his head away shamefully. "I...I didn't think..." Subconsciously, he ran a hand over the top of his head. "In the Refinery...I don't know what came over me..."

"Indeed." O'Ferrell's simple statement wasn't accusatory, but matter-of-fact and somewhat bewildered. "You weren't acting like yourself—just a moment ago is a good example, too. Short-tempered, snappish, at the mercy of deep-set emotions...why, now that I think about it, I'd say your recent behavior has many parallels to that of a certain _Randall Boggs_."

Seeming thoughtful, Number 00626 turned from O'Ferrell. "Yeah...I guess lately, I've been starting to understand why Randall acted the way he did. _Really_ understand, I mean—the frustration, the anger, the—" He broke off, wrapping his arms about himself almost protectively. "...The sadness," he finished, his voice wavering.

O'Ferrell placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "You still grieve for her, don't you?"

Shrugging off the touch, Number 00626 walked to one of the sideline benches and took a seat, hunching over and clasping his hands. O'Ferrell approached him after a respectful interval, sitting next to him.

"She shouldn't have gone out that way," Number 00626 spoke up, his quiet words laced with bitterness. "It wasn't fair."

"Kage was a brilliant agent and a good friend," O'Ferrell asserted kindly. "You must remember her for how she lived, not how she died."

Number 00626 snorted. "Easier said than done." He then laid his right forearm across his knees, propping up his other arm so he could rest his chin on his left hand. "Y'know, when I first joined Team Red, I thought I was only in it to see justice done and to expose the CDA for the embarrassment it's become. But...well, now I can see how revenge ends up playing a part for a lotta folks—one way or another, the fight becomes personal." He looked O'Ferrell's way. "I still don't like the idea of ruining people's lives to get what we want," he went on. "But if that's the only way to change things, to make everything fair, then I want _in_."

With a lower arm, O'Ferrell patted Number 00626's right one. "We'll get both Sullivan _and_ Wazowski, I promise you that," he assured. "Remember, Megnon's planned everything in such a way as to have all the puzzle pieces fall together gradually, and Sullivan's part in the scheme of things doesn't come into play just yet. So be patient.... Besides, it would be a shame if our soon-to-be new recruit doesn't get the chance to savor Sullivan's downfall along with you."

"Randall can savor it if he wants," the long-tailed agent said, "and I'll probably get my own share of pleasure out of it, too. More than anything, though, I want to see it _done_—and I want to see Number One get cut down to size." His voice had grown quiet and fierce at the last statement, and his hands had balled into fists. But the moment passed, and he continued more optimistically. "The best part is that we'll finally prove our merit, me and Randall—we'll finally show everyone what we're made of. And this time, _no one_ will be able to deny it."

"Something I very much look forward to," O'Ferrell concurred. "You and Boggs deserve to shine for once."

Number 00626 sighed. "Randall more than me," he muttered. "_He's_ the one who doesn't have anyone's coattails to ride on."

"Well, then, you'll make a name for yourself!" O'Ferrell proclaimed, hopping off the bench. "After all of this is over, I can't see why you _wouldn't_ be your own monster in the public's eyes."

Standing up, Number 00626 laughed warmly. "Thanks, O'Ferrell. It's nice to know someone still believes in me."

"Isn't that, as the saying goes, what friends are for?" The two began making their way out of the gymnasium. "Besides, I much prefer the mild-mannered you to the hot-tempered you."

Number 00626 chuckled, shaking his head. "You really are something, you know that?"

"I'm just trying to help," O'Ferrell answered simply. He switched off the light as they headed into the hallway and back toward the Wreck Room. The sounds of multiple conversations wafted their way, one in particular catching Number 00626's interest as they reentered:

"...But whaddya think is takin' her so _long?_ Da guy's supposed ta be easy pickin's for her."

"Of course he was, and I'd bet fifty bucks she's just been busy all this time cleanin' up after herself!"

"Who's been cleaning up after herself?" Number 00626 asked casually, stopping at the card table where the conversation was taking place.

The female agent who'd spoken to Niner looked up at him from her hand of cards. "Shirley, o' course," she answered. "Last time she reported here was yesterday afternoon, an' nobody's seen or heard from her since."

"Oh. And do you guys happen to know what she's been up to?"

"_I do_," a broad, bafoonish-looking agent chimed in. "She's been in da factory, takin' care o' dat Boggs character."

"'Taking care'?" Number 00626 queried, sounding baffled and wary at the same time. "You mean she's the one who's escorting him here?"

"Oh, I wouldn't say _that_," a thin-framed, weaselly-voiced agent replied silkily. "Let's just say she had to tie up a loose end, an' that loose end happened to be Mr. Boggs."

"Den Shirley's done tied 'im up GOOD!" the big agent exclaimed. All the card players burst into a raucous round of laughter.

Number 00626's body grew rigid. "What do you _mean_ by that?" he asked slowly, his tone becoming dangerous.

"Ain't it obvious?" the weaselly agent snickered, clearly enjoying this. "Unlike the rest of us, she ain't a volunteer—she's hired help! And as ya know, she was hired for her _particular_ skills...of which she's already given that Lizard Boy a nice little demonstration of—_on him_."

Louder laughs began to resound when—in a flash—Number 00626 leaped upon the weaselly agent with a snarl, snapping the card table in two. All conversation halted immediately, everyone's focus upon the present grappling. There wasn't much actual grappling, however: the two agents lied in the broken table's crevice, Number 00626 on top with both hands at the other's throat and leaning threateningly into the weasel's concealed face.

"Tell me what Shirley's done to Randall!" he shouted. "And this time," he went on, lowering his tone to a warning hiss, " you'd _better_ be straight with me."

"All right, all right, I'll talk!" the weasel blurted desperately. "But may I add the disclaimer that the likelihood of you not likin' what yer about to hear is VERY high?"

With a ripping _fwick_, Number 00626 extended a black claw through the layer of suit covering his right index finger. He then idly tapped the clawed finger on the underside of the weasel's jaw, near his throat.

"_Try me_," he dared.

The weasel gulped.

-------------------------

Back in the apartment, the swooned Mike had been laid on the couch, propped up by pillows against an armrest while the two other monsters hovered over him concernedly. Devon sat a little ways off, ensconced in an old beanbag chair looking equal parts thoughtful and uncertain.

With a sudden moan, Mike brought a hand to the area above his closed eye, rubbing it groggily. "...Sul, I had the _worst_ nightmare..." he murmured, grimacing. "You were all up in arms 'bout me going to your room...then when I went in, there was a _human_..."—his eye fluttered open—"...and I coulda sworn standing next to me was a liz—" His dazed look disappeared as his vision focused on Janis. "_AAHHH!_"

Both Sulley and Janis gave startled yells as Mike scuttled backward, clambering atop the couch's backrest and knocking away pillows with his feet in the process. "Who's...what's she...WHY—?" Then Mike's eye darted toward Devon. "AHH!"

As if in a wince, the girl tucked up her legs against her chest, shyly peering at the green monster over her knees.

"_Calm down_, Mikey," Sulley assured, stepping forward. "Everything's okay—"

"Okay? OKAY?!" It was hard to tell whether Mike was on the verge of a nervous breakdown or a conniption fit. "You call hoarding a full-grown human in our apartment _okay?!_"

"Cool your jets, Cyclops," Janis reproved sharply. "For one thing, Devon's still pretty much a kid by her own right. And second, if you don't stop _shouting_ the news to the entire city, you won't be 'hoarding' her for very long!"

"Whoa, whoa, time out!" Mike started climbing down from his perch, then jabbed a finger at Janis once he stood on the floor. "Where the heck did _she_ come from?"

Nervously, Sulley rapped his fingertips against each other. "Well...do you remember that new friend I told you about?"

Mike blinked at the two monsters as disbelieving realization dawned on him. "You mean she...and _you_...?"

Sulley nodded.

"_Perfect_," he spat sarcastically. "We go from hosting human strays to making nice with whatever lady monster you happen to come across downtown. We're _definitely_ on an upward swing NOW, Sulley!"

In a lightning quick movement, Janis stood before Mike. "Are you saying you have a problem with me and Sulley being friends?"

Mike's bravado melted under her glare. "L-look, lady, I'm just looking out for my pal's best interest," he said, taking a step back as she leaned into his face. "He's an important guy 'round these parts, and out of good conscience, I can't have him running around with strange lizard monsters—EH!"

Janis had grabbed hold of Mike's horns, jerking them downward and staring daggers at him as he squinted back fearfully, his teeth gritted.

"I see..." she spoke, eyes narrowed in disgust. "He's a little coward AND a little bigot!" She then released him, her motion rough enough to propel Mike backward several feet.

"C'mon you guys, cut it out!" Sulley ordered, as though to misbehaving children. "We're losing sight of what's important here. Mikey, my friend Janis says she'll help us get Devon back to the Human World."

Turning to him, Mike raised a skeptical eye ridge. "Oh? And why would she do _that?_"

"Because I WANT to," Janis enunciated irritably. "Do you really need a better reason than that?"

"Well pardon _me_ for not being very trusting of people who've taken charm school lessons from Randall!" The words had streamed out before Mike knew it, and as soon as he'd blurted them, he gasped and clapped his hands over his mouth. Sulley grimaced and quickly looked to Janis, watching for and dreading her reaction.

"Whoa whoa, hold on a sec," she said, gesturing in a "stopping" motion and then placing a hand on her forehead, her eyes briefly shut. "That's the second time I've heard that name today."

"_Second?_" Sulley and Mike chorused. "Where did you hear it before?" Sulley continued.

"From me."

Heads turned toward Devon, who'd spoken up for the first time during this conversation.

"Janis came into the bedroom invisible and...well...I kinda mistook her for somebody else."

"Invisible?" Sulley's gaze flicked to Janis. "You can camouflage yourself?"

Uneasily, the lizard monster averted her eyes and twisted a lock of hair around her finger. "I-it's not something I like to tell a lot of people about."

"But if you mistook her vanishing act for _Randall's_..." Mike turned toward Sulley. "Sul, unless there are any other chameleon monsters named Randall crawling around in the Human World, then this kid's talkin' about _our_ Randall!"

Devon's face lit up. "You guys know about Randall?"

"Yeah, we do..." Sulley started uncomfortably, then let his sudden spark of curiosity change the subject. "How did you come across him?"

Janis looked at the girl, giving her an almost imperceptible nod of encouragement.

Standing up, Devon began to rub the back of her neck. "Well, me and my dad found Randall in our backyard Friday night, and then the other night—right before I got stuck in this world—I'd followed him to my old school. If it helps you guys any, he told me his name was Randall _Boggs_."

Mike's eye went wide. "Wait—he _spoke_ with you? _Civil-like?_"

Devon half-shrugged. "Well, yeah."

Meanwhile, Sulley silently digested this news and felt a strange feeling of elation surge within him. If she'd seen Randall that recently, then he was still alive! And if he was still alive, that meant he HADN'T died in that godforsaken swampland after all! Heck, he'd even managed to travel all the way to California while he was at it!

—And then Sulley's joyous train of thought hit a snag.

"Wait a minute," he said, face falling. "Did Randall happen to be _with you_ when you went through the door?"

Devon wrung her hands. "I didn't think so at first..."

Sulley and Mike leaned forward expectantly.

"...But when I stepped inside and looked around...I thought I saw Randall in there, too. Just for a second."

The two friends exchanged meaningful glances. "You mean...Randall's _back?_" Mike asked.

Devon pushed her glasses back up her nose. "I guess so."

"Terrific." Mike shot Sulley an exceedingly gloomy look. "With our luck, I shoulda _known_ this new life was too sweet to last."

Janis raised an eye ridge. "What's with you guys and this Randall Boggs?" she queried, just a hint of deliberate prying in her words.

Sulley sighed. "We...kinda have some history with him," he confessed.

"BAD history," Mike emphasized.

"What other kind is there?" Janis stated dully. "Even so, you guys seem pretty jumpy about running into him again. What's he got against you two?"

For a moment, all they could offer were blank stares.

"Lady," Mike began emphatically, "you have NO idea!"

"Oh, really?" she replied, folding her arms. "Throw me a bone."

"All right...how 'bout the fact that Randall Boggs holds the Mother of All Grudges against us?"

"Fine. But just _why?_"

Mike hooded his eye. "Sweetheart, guys like Randall don't need a _reason_ to hold grudges. They're just plain jerks!"

"He did some lousy, _really_ bad things to us," Sulley supplemented, though without Mike's vehemence.

"Yeah—so that makes him a louse, too!"

"He's bad news, Janis," Sulley went on in grim sincerity, "and it's probably best if we all keep away from him, if we can help it."

Her magnified eyes wide, Devon stepped toward the monsters. "But...Randall didn't seem like that to me at all," she said, shaking her head. "Maybe he made some mistakes, but...he can't be _that_ bad, can he?"

Mike's expression grew indignant. "Kid, why do THINK he was banished?"

Inwardly, Sulley cringed.

"'Banished'?" Devon asked, looking puzzled. "What's that mean?"

"Banishment is the worst kind of punishment in our world, honey," Janis explained. "It's when a monster is sent to the Human World to live in exile."

"And only the worst offenders get that kind of rap," Mike added. "So, as you can see, Randall is guilty as sin. Case closed."

Janis rubbed her nonexistent chin. "Hmm...banishment, huh? It's good to know, since I _was_ beginning to wonder how Randall ended up in her world in the first place."

"Heh...yeah. That's it, all right." Now even _Mike_ seemed slightly uncomfortable with the way he'd just made his claim.

Seeming disappointed, Devon cast her eyes downward. "He's really that bad?"

"Bad enough that he'll probably want to off us the first chance he gets." Mike made a noise halfway between a groan and a sigh. "Well, at least I can safely say it can't get much worse than this."

Sulley's mouth twitched awkwardly. "Uh, Mikey..."

The green monster lidded his eye. "It just got worse, didn't it?"

With a sigh, Sulley began pacing the room. "The CDA's looking into a possible security breach that was called in last night from the factory," he said. "One of their guys caught up with me today, but...he just _really_ got into my face, like he already knew I was guilty of hiding something. And he told me 'this isn't over' right before he left."

"So lemme get this straight," Mike said. "There's an entire government agency out there looking for this kid, and there's also an agent who, by the way, hates your guts and would jump at the first opportunity to nail you for having said kid in possession?"

"...Basically," Sulley confirmed.

His expression deadened, Mike turned and started walking away. "That's it. Life is _officially_ unfair." He then whirled around, pointing an accusing finger at Sulley. "And it's all YOUR fault!"

The furry monster started, taken aback. "_My_ fault?!"

"You bet your bottom dollar it is!" Mike shot back. "If you weren't always so OBVIOUS when it comes to keeping secrets, we wouldn't _be_ in this much of a fix!"

"_Me_ 'obvious'? _You're_ the one who produced an entire PLAY based on classified events and then glorified your role so that it looked like I did _squat!_"

"Well, it _sure_ didn't seem to bother you then—just like it didn't bother ME when you _mistook me for a stool and SAT ON MY HEAD BACK IN KINDERGARDEN!_"

The two continued their shouting match, Devon and Janis soon exchanging uncertain and bored glances, respectively. Then, smirking, Janis approached Mike and Sulley while keeping a safe distance between herself and them.

"Say, Mike...didn't you mention something about losing a mike earlier today?" she asked smoothly.

The green monster shut his trap a moment. "Yeah...and I bet you were lying about that TOO, you over-sized Throw Rug!"

Sulley crinkled his nose. "I did _not_ lie! I didn't have it in my room before, and I _still_ don't have it now! So there!"

"I dunno, Mike..." Janis warbled, stringing him along. "Maybe you should check his room yourself and find out."

Childishly emboldened, Mike straightened. "Y'know what? I believe I will." He then strode in the direction of Sulley's bedroom.

"Mike, you take ONE STEP in there—!" Sulley quickly stomped after him, Janis following in his wake unnoticed except by Devon.

"I'm taking a step inside, Sulley!" Mike called. "In fact, I'm searching through your sock drawer _right now!_"

"That's it!" Sulley yelled, stepping into his bedroom. "I'm gonna knock your keister all the way back to—!"

_SLAM!_

Janis pressed her upper torso against the closed bedroom door, exhaling in relief. As muffled voices of argument continued to clash behind her, she returned to the apartment's living area, running a hand over her fronds.

"While those two duke it out..." she said, settling into a comfortable position on the rug next to the couch, then—as an invitation for Devon to sit—patting a couch cushion above, "why don't you tell me more about this Randall Boggs...?"

-------------------------

Several minutes later, Sulley and Mike had exhausted their anger and their rather pointless argument finally ran out of steam. Now in a more rational mood, Sulley explained to Mike how he'd come across Devon in the Refinery, what she'd told him about her arrival into the Monster World, and of his unpleasant encounter with Number 00626.

"...And that's about all I know," Sulley finished, presently leaning on his dresser like earlier. "Since her door was on the Laughfloor so late last night, I doubt we're ever gonna see it again."

Sitting on Sulley's bed, Mike began bouncing his weight absentmindedly. "So what do you propose we do now, Genius?"

Sulley scratched his head. "I found out from Devon where she lives—so, even if we can't get the same door, we can try sneaking her through _another_ kid's door located in the same city. And because she's old enough to find home on her own, all we have to do is make sure the door we take her through is within walking distance from her house."

"Only one problem, Sul," Mike said. "All the doors are at the factory, and you said it yourself—the CDA's sniffing her out and they're not stopping till the trail runs dry. If those scanners work as well as that Six-Two-Six guy says, then it's _not_ gonna run dry. It'll lead straight to us—right here—'cause I can _guarantee_ you that one guy's not gonna stop until he's got you where he wants." He paused, actually seeming a bit sorry for what he had to say next. "We _can't_ keep her here, Sulley. We're already putting a lot on the line by having her in the apartment right now."

Running a hand over his face, Sulley sighed. "You're right," he admitted reluctantly. "But where _else_ can she go?"

Mike sat in thought a moment, rhythmically kicking his legs with his bottom lip sucked in. Then, breaking into a triumphant grin, he suddenly hopped on top of the bed. "I've GOT it! We'll call Charlie!"

Sulley frowned, equal parts skeptical and confused. "Charlie Tinkler, the _mailman?_"

"No no no no—my _Uncle_ Charlie!" He slid off the bed, landing in front of Sulley. "He just moved back here to live close to the rest of the family, and he's involved with this huge 'human rights' type organization now. If those activists are _anything_ like the newspapers describe 'em, they'll take in Devon in a heartbeat!"

"I dunno, Mike," Sulley said. "How do we know we can trust them?"

Mike waved a dismissive hand. "_Pffft_, believe me, these monsters wouldn't hurt a fly. Besides, word is they hail you as some kind of 'enlightened, progressive' something-or-other. They practically worship the ground you walk on! So think of what it does to their psyche to have YOU behind the induction of an actual _human_ to their club."

Sulley looked away; something in his gut warned him against making such a move, but what other choice did they have? He hadn't seen Uncle Charlie for quite a few years, anyway, and if _he_ was anything like Sulley remembered him to be, then they could count on him being willing to lend a hand. His being a human rights activist, hopefully, would soften up the shock of coming face-to-face with a real-live human.

At length, Sulley consented. "Sure. What else have we got to lose?"

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hmm...can anyone say, "Famous last words"?

Anywho, I've been REALLY looking forward to finishing this chappie, since the next one is when the _real_ fun begins! I won't say much, except that next time we're gonna be doing a bit of time traveling. So stay tuned to find out.;)

As for voice talents, I've pretty much settled on Whoopi Goldberg for Janis, since this match seems to fit really well.:) I'm also considering matching up Number 00626 with Jeff Bennett (since he's done so many voices, think Brooklyn from _Gargoyles_ more than anything else). Any other suggestions? I'm ALL ears.:)

As always, thanks for reading! And keep up the writing and reviewing, people!


	7. The Unwelcoming Committee

HOMECOMING

By Light Rises 

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**Author's Note****:** The beginning of the REAL fun at last! Yay! And I hope this installment lives up to the expectations set by its predecessors.:) As always, BIG thanks for the reviews, folks; they are greatly appreciated.

'Nuff said. On with the story!

**Disclaimer:** You know the rap.;)

**Time****:** Begins the night of Sunday, April 13, 2003, and ends the afternoon of the next day.

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Chapter 6 – The Unwelcoming Committee

_…I'm…I'm back._

Down the first hallway of Monsters, Inc.'s darkened office sector, Randall Boggs lied atop a thickish, exposed pipe suspended from the ceiling. Sensing a slight chill in the air, he watched with strange, entranced intensity as the faintest of white plumes escaped his lips with each breath. Again, he repeated the thought in silent, disbelieving affirmation: _I'm back._

It had taken awhile for the realization to sink in; the past half hour (or perhaps more?—he honestly couldn't tell) had been a frantic blur, what with that moving truck and the door and then—on the other side—a call sent up by a factory employee which flipped on the lights, consequently prompting Randall to dash away and find a place to lie low until everything cooled down. Only now, in these quiet moments when the danger didn't feel immediate, did he have the luxury to actually _think_ about what had just happened.

Back here, in the Monster World, after all he'd been through…the idea was surreal enough to be hypnotizing.

A shudder ran down his spine and he shook it off, coming out of his spell. His thoughts returned to all the fuss that employee had made, the lizard monster puzzling over his mysterious reaction. Just a door sitting in the middle of a Scarefloor late at night wasn't cause for such alarm, right? Of course it wasn't; normally, it was a ridiculous waste of time to worry about. Unless…

With sudden conviction—and a sharp pang of something he couldn't identify—Randall shook his head. No—_HE_ would never let that human girl go through the door after Randall. The last thing _HE_ wanted was any attention drawn to _HIS_ workings, much less to the lizard monster who was set to benefit from those workings. So it _couldn't_ be her; not a chance. The better guess was that Randall himself had accidentally tipped off the employee, and so now was truly running for cover.

_Typical—the guy provided a way home only to leave me up the river without a paddle once I got here._ He snorted in annoyance at his deduction, his emerald eyes hardening immediately afterward as rising bitterness knotted his throat. _And why should I expect more? What's_ HE _expecting to get out of helping a lizard monster? Nothing; and_ HE _knows it as much as I do. As much as everyone else does…_

His bitterness gave way to chest-tightening emotion, and the instant Randall sensed self-pity wedging itself into the feeling, he defiantly gulped it all down with clenched teeth. No—it was stupid, _stupid_ to feel that way. There was a time, years ago, when he truly didn't care if feeling sorry for himself aggravated more than it comforted, or that doing so had nearly _killed _him several times. But even though these moments of weakness still flared up (especially during those first few months of his exile), the will to live always managed to win out. He'd learned—and was determined—to never fall prey to those useless emotions again. They'd never gotten him anywhere before, and they certainly weren't going to now.

Yes…so long as that human kid minded her own business, stayed out of trouble, and so long as he escaped this factory, everything would be all right. The cynical part of him wanted to scoff at this line of thinking, of course, but it was all he had left…

Straightening onto all eights, Randall shimmied backwards on the pipe and slid off once he reached the wall. He crawled onto the cold floor tail-first, his limbs wobbly from a cloud of light-headedness as he slinked down the hallway, deeper into the office sector. He kept onward until he caught sight of an alcove to his left, into which he turned and found a tool rack set upon a wall of pipes that made up the alcove's far end. Raising to an upright position, he approached the rack and worked his fingers around the fake pipe on the far right, where it hopefully wouldn't be missed. He then gripped it and twisted with a steady pull, feeling the long section of pipe loosen from its riveted junctions above and below even as his arms protested against the exertion. Just as the need to stop and recoup became too pressing to resist, the pipe gave and thumped against Randall's chest, freed. He nearly lost hold of it, his limbs suddenly like jelly and his light-headedness intensified ten-fold, leaving him reeling for a moment. Out of sheer willpower, he stiffened and closed his eyes, taking a steadying breath with the top end of the pipe held against his forehead in a four-handed grip.

"Steady, Randall…" he whispered aloud, his voice hoarse. As the spinning world about him settled some, he peered through eye slits and half-staggered to the alcove wall on his right, bracing his right arms against it as though to catch his breath. It was peculiar; a couple years ago, wrenching that pipe from the wall would've been a cinch. But his many months spent deprived of the comforts of civilization had taken their toll: malnutrition, lingering aches from slow-healing injuries, and a mind not quite as keen as it used to be, among other things. Tonight had been a worse night for Randall than usual, so once he'd entered the factory, he ruled out the possibility of using his camouflaging ability to avoid being spotted. It required more energy and concentration than he had any hope of mustering right now; he'd overdone it on Friday when trying to get away from that kid's father, and he'd REALLY pushed it about an hour ago in that school restroom stall. On top of all that, his blending was a recently _reacquired_ skill, having been lost for over a year after that idiot woman repeatedly took a shovel to his skull. The searing headaches which still occasionally plagued him had been an hourly torture for weeks after the incident, and there'd been several horrifying, gut-twisting moments when Randall feared he might've lost his unique ability—the thing he'd built his career upon—forever.

So, considering his disadvantages, Randall wasn't about to take any chances with his escape from the factory. Hence, the pipe.

Presently, he pushed away from the wall and tested the solidity of his legs. Satisfied that they'd bear his weight now, he let his tail take the pipe in its coils and then dropped back onto all eights, slithering out of the alcove. He tracked his way out of the office sector toward the main hallway which, if memory served him right, branched off into Scarefloors A through F on either side. Before entering the hall through a final door, he checked the latter's bottom crack for lights and listened for voices. Then, the hinges giving a slight squeak, he softly opened it and looked in.

All the lights were indeed off by now…except for one emanating down the hallway across from him. And it seemed to be coming from one of the floors' dispatch offices.

_Lemme guess—Roz is pulling yet ANOTHER all-nighter._ Randall shook his head almost imperceptibly; that woman was downright fanatical when it came to paperwork, and she'd probably use the office as a bedroom if company policy allowed it. But alas, her obsession had to be sated by working late nights and clocking in impossibly early almost every day, including Sundays. Randall had seen Roz at it himself, what with his working on the Scream Extractor after hours. He knew of no one else who was THAT devoted to so mundane an activity, Fungus being a close second with his lint collection. So this was one of those nights…and it was one of those Sundays.

The best part, of course, was she'd be so absorbed in her work, that Roz was unlikely to cast a glance Randall's way even if he simply strolled down the hall like any normal, unassuming monster. So being sneaky around her should be an easy ticket out of whatever threat she posed to blowing his cover. Confidence rising, he began padding down the hall on all eights, the pipe still securely wrapped in his tail as the latter swayed with the lizard monster's quick, cautious gait. Before long, the light and subsequent hallway leading into Scarefloor F loomed up and urged Randall to slow to a crawl, then stop altogether. Several yards to his immediate right was a stark, golden haze splashing onto the floor through shaded windows…a detail which he found to be rather curious. When the heck did dispatch offices start using window shades?

Well, at least they offered one advantage: he could see a silhouette moving inside the office, through the window panel closest to him. More importantly, the shades prevented whomever it was inside from seeing _out_, which made things even easier than he'd anticipated. Without further delay, he began continuing down the main hallway—

"Ah, Mr. Boggs! We've been expecting you."

Randall froze, going cold from within. _Okay…that was definitely NOT Roz._ He slowly turned his head to see the silhouette still at its post, its mouth now agape in an obvious, beguiling smile.

"Come in, come in…" the voice, which was deeply feminine and silky, coaxed as the metal smoke door shutting the service window slid open. "We both know it's been a long time coming."

At this, Randall's eye ridges wrinkled in shrewdness. Maybe _HE_ had been a _SHE_ all along…and perhaps was more committed to Randall's well being than the lizard monster had concluded. But no—would he dare to believe that? From his experience, someone who used a tone of voice THAT sweet was up to no good, so it was hard to believe this mystery woman would be any different. In any case, he had little choice in the matter; she knew he was there, and he wasn't about to find out the hard way just _how_ badly she wanted her invitation accepted.

_Fine. I'll play along._ Standing upright, he took the pipe into his lower pair of hands and clutched it close to his belly, then strode to the dispatch office's service window and used his remaining six limbs to crawl inside. He slipped over the counter and, seeing that the woman was still at the end counter with her back to him, he thrust the pipe-bearing hands behind his back as he straightened and then looked her over carefully. She wore a deep, hunter green business suit which fit tightly about her hourglass figure, along with a short skirt under which a furry, snow-white slug tail supported her weight. She didn't seem much taller than himself, if not the same height, and she was presently busying herself with something on the counter in front of her.

"So we meet at last," she spoke in that same, nurturing voice without turning around.

Randall narrowed his eyes at her. "How did you know I was out there?"

"Oh, I have my ways," the woman answered cryptically. "Even if I haven't the benefit of sight, I know enough about Randall Boggs to make rather…_accurate_ guesswork of what you'll do next."

Almost instinctively, Randall's lower hands tightened their grip around the pipe behind his back.

"I see…" Randall said warily, tilting his head as he folded his upper arms. "So tell me…how did you manage to learn so much about me? I'm not exactly an open book, y'know."

She abruptly laughed. "Now, now, I don't know all _that_ much," she replied, her long arms working a tad more feverishly at whatever was on the counter. "Just a few basics: you were banished"—_click_—"young"—_snap_—"naïve…" She then turned, a smug grin spreading across her thin lips as she aimed a large taser gun at Randall. "…And have outlived your usefulness," she finished, the weapon charging with a high-pitched whine.

He stiffened slightly, but he met her red-hued, maniacal glare with unwavering eyes. "We'll see about that," he muttered. Then—although every square-inch of his body protested against it—he vanished and with the quickest movement he could manage, he disarmed the woman and bent the seemingly floating pipe into a bind around her wrists, all before she could even react to his disappearing act.

Stepping away from her, Randall shifted his colors back into view, hefting the gun in his top pair of arms. His knees were ready to buckle, and his lower arms—which had helped in bending the pipe—shook and felt as though his nerves had turned into wet, limp noodles. He let out an amused chuckle at the woman's expense, though, even as his eyes unfocused momentarily when light-headedness erupted with a vengeance.

"Looks like your guesswork still needs some fine tuning," he remarked, vaguely dusting his lower pair of hands. He then turned and started to head toward the window—but only took two strides before furry forearms looped over his head and jerked him back and upward, almost off the ground, his windpipe now sandwiched between metal-bound wrists and the woman's upper torso. Snarling, he aimed the taser toward her head at pointblank range, only to feel something sharp press threateningly against his ribcage and something else wrap around him, pinning his body to her abdomen. Perplexed, he glanced down and realized three things at once: one, that her slug-like tail was actually two shaggy legs that she'd been kneeling on before; two, that she had a pair of retractable arms which had burst through the sides of her suit; and three, that one of these arms restrained him while the other brandished a knife. Silently, he cursed both his luck and his presumptuousness.

"Ah, ah, _ah_," she said in mock reprimand. "Unless you want to test who's the quicker draw, I advise you drop your arms. And, oh—no funny stuff with that pesky tail of yours, all right?"

With a frustrated growl, he lowered the weapon and dropped it to the floor. The woman's grin broadened at this, her sharp teeth showing as she tucked away the knife. "_Good boy…_" she commended. She then punched Randall's lower jaw with her free hand, loosening her vise-like grip on his neck and body as he sank to the floor in a coiled heap, his eyes rolled back. His vision had exploded with blinding colors when the uppercut hit, but it quickly blurred to darkness and then a vague distinction of light and objects surrounding him. His entire head pounded, stabs of pain pulsing within his skull as one of his old headaches reemerged, unrelentingly agitated by this newest abuse.

In an immense act of willpower, Randall lifted his head from the floor and dazedly looked up at the woman. She had unbound her upper arms and tossed the mangled pipe aside, then bent down to retrieve her weapon. Presently she straightened, chuckling as she realigned the gun's loosened charge cartridge and watched Randall try to get up, his limbs shaking.

"I must say, Mr. Boggs," she said, almost good-naturedly, "you've provided me quite an exercise tonight. But, really—" she went on, raising the gun and lowering her voice, "I must finish this."

Breathing hard, Randall's sudden, desperate desire to NOT die—at least at _this_ clown's hands—kicked in, defiance surging within and showing up in a hard glare and a sneer that curled his upper lip.

"Not if you can't—_think fast_!" In a flash, the whip end of his tail slapped against the gun just as its electric pulse flew out of the barrel, diverting the shot's path so that it burst into static harmlessness against a file cabinet. Randall slithered away, again making for the partially open window when another shot crashed in his path, and then more began to rain around him. His defiance suddenly swelled into a fire that streamed through his veins; now barely giving his actions a thought, Randall started dodging and leaping and crawling around the room—along the walls, on top of counters and file cabinets, everywhere the sticky pads of his digits could gain purchase. Meanwhile, the woman kept shooting and missing, so much so that her fur began to stand on end from all the released static.

"Hold _still_ already!" she spat crossly, still shooting. "You're making this a lot harder on yourself than it needs to be!"

"Who said it was hard on _me_?" he retaliated, easily avoiding those shots. Indeed: with the onslaught of an adrenaline rush, all of Randall's injuries and weaknesses had been deadened and almost forgotten, to the point that he had regained—for at least a few glorious moments—some of his feline gracefulness and quick cunning. For a few glorious moments, he could conceivably escape this gal and get out of this situation _alive_.

But in the midst of his evasive moves, Randall made one potentially fatal error. He'd nimbly plopped onto the floor, in front of a door which led to the office's back room, and was about to make another leap when the door abruptly swung inward. He twisted around at the noise, tensing for a possible new attack.

"W-what in Monstropolis is going—?" The red monster gasped, paling and almost losing hold of the pile of papers he carried at the sight of Randall. The lizard monster was similarly stunned, relaxing slightly and widening his eyes as he did a double take. They had only held each other's gaze for a split second—but it was enough a distraction for the woman to get a clear shot.

A jolt of searing, prickling pain tore into Randall's back then radiated throughout his body. Its energy enveloped him in tendrils of white electricity while sapping away his strength utterly, even the strength to stay conscious. The process ran its course very quickly, though, in less than two heartbeats. Eyes rolling into his head, Randall murmured a faint "Fungus…" as the tendrils faded, outstretching an upper arm as he flopped to the ground. And then, darkness.

-------------------------

"AAUUUGH!" Fungus recoiled dramatically, dropping the paperwork and flicking his jittery gaze from a motionless Randall to the armed woman. "W-what did you _DO_ that for?!"

Shirley Klump blinked at him, her expression blank as she slowly lowered the weapon. "Uh…" Averting her eyes a moment, she suddenly shot a hot glare at Fungus. "Why else do you think, you imbecile?!" she snapped. "This _maniac_ of a scaley forced his way inside touting this horrid thing"—she roughly shook the gun to indicate it—"and it was all I could do to protect myself. It was self-defense, plain and simple." She arched a brow, looking over the bespectacled monster carefully. "What's it to you?" she queried slowly, folding her lower arms.

Fungus opened his mouth to give a rather thorough answer, but stopped dead as he noticed something cold and deranged flash in Shirley's gaze. A brief glance downward at Randall—whose long body lay at an odd angle—was enough to make him think better of telling too much.

"O-oh, nothing, nothing!" he insisted. "It was just…it looked so _painful_, what you did to him."

"I had no other choice," she explained, almost sounding rueful. "Besides, I have a hunch _he_ was behind all that ruckus out in the hallway." She hooded her eyes, smiling lightly. "I was just doing my part to…_'clean house'_, so to speak."

Fungus took a tentative step toward Randall. "He isn't—what I mean is, you didn't—?"

She chuckled. "Oh, of _course_ not," she said in a sickly sweet voice. "The gun was…only set to 'stun'. Indeed it was…"

She ran her fingers along the weapon, looking at it with a faintly smug smirk. Again, Fungus directed his gaze to Randall, overcome with deep unsettlement at the lizard monster's ghostly complexion and utter limpness. He certainly seemed quite a bit MORE than "just stunned"…

Fungus toed the floor shyly. "S-s-so do you think we should call the authorities?" he stuttered.

Shirley's unnerving sweetness disappeared, a scowl creasing her brows. "_We_? There is no 'we' here, because _you_ dropped that paperwork and _you_ are going to pick it up! Now! Pronto! _Ándale_! MOVE IT!"

Seeing she was now in his face, Fungus bent down obligingly and shot a quick glance at Randall. "B-b-b-but w-what about Ra—I-I mean, the intruder?" he sputtered, his voice trembling as much as his limbs.

"Will you _forget_ about that already?!" She stopped herself, shutting her eyes to take a quick, exasperated breath. "Look, if it'll make you feel better, _you_ can get a cart and take this trash out yourself while I clean up your mess. I have better things to do than argue with someone who's afraid to share a room with a lousy stiff!"

Fungus gulped at what she said, revelation dawning. Another swift look at Randall drew a soft, impulsive whimper of sympathy from the red monster.

Shirley blinked, her eyes losing focus for an instant as if she'd just realized something important. It was gone as fast as it came, however.

"_Well…?_" she pressed him.

"Oh, yes yes, that sounds good!" Fungus answered hastily. "D-downright agreeable!"

"Then what are you still _doing_ here? Shoo! Go on! Out!"

"I'm out, I'm out!" Fungus scampered through the office's entry door, bursting into the Laughfloor and slowing to a stop, panting. His three-lens specs glinted with streaming-in moonlight as he looked ahead at nowhere in particular.

_Randall…he came BACK._ Fungus quickly calculated the probability in his mind, of ever seeing ANYONE who'd been missing for this length of time again, and found it to be rather—more like _hopelessly_—slim. Yet Randall had somehow beaten those horrible odds…only to be shot down right before his former scare assistant's very eyes.

Fungus whimpered again, sucking in his bottom lip. Quiet, intermittent sniffles preceded him as he searched for a stray cart on Laughfloor F. He soon found one, and as he wheeled it toward the dispatch office, he mentally recited mathematical factorials—_Five factorial equals 5 x 4 x 3 x 2 x 1, which also equals 120_—in hopes of keeping his mind off the grimness of his task.

Rolling the cart in front of the office entry, Fungus stopped it and clicked its handlebar into place. He absently adjusted his glasses as he peered through the doorway.

"I-I found a cart, Shirley," he indicated meekly.

"Well, what are you _waiting_ for?" she shouted back, from the main office area where he couldn't see her. "Get on with it an' get him out of here!"

Fungus clenched his lower jaw, willing himself to not look at Randall's body just a few feet to the right. "I-I would gladly do so, e-except I'm certain I don't possess sufficient muscle mass to lift his weight, a-and—"

An infuriated groan sounded. "All right, ENOUGH already! Ugh, have to do everything _myself_ around here…" Shirley stepped into view, gesturing gruffly for Fungus to come stand with her over Randall. After rolling Randall onto his back, she took the lead in lifting his body, taking hold of Randall's upper torso while Fungus was in charge of the lower half. The red monster shuddered at how _cold_ to touch he felt, but somehow didn't feel the same queasiness that usually struck him when presented with such morbid circumstances.

Easily stepping over the cart with her long legs, Shirley backed out of the door and moved next to the handlebar end of the cart, waiting as Fungus shuffled to the other end. Upon her order, they laid Randall onto the cart length-wise and stood back, Shirley only huffing slightly as she dusted her hands.

"That's that," she said curtly. "Least his tail won't drag so much, with these bigger carts and all." She heaved a sigh, stepping into the dispatch office again. "I'm closing up," she muttered wearily. "Just take the cart to the hall and wait for me, will ya?"

"S-sure." As she vanished inside, Fungus trained his gaze on Randall. Slowly, he drew near the lizard monster's head and hunkered down, vaguely wringing his hands. He noticed that the head hanged over the cart's edge, fronds brushing the ground, so he gingerly lifted it and readjusted the body's position before laying the head down again, this time on the cart. Randall's head lolled gently to the side, so that now he didn't seem so limp and more like he was only asleep.

"Randall…?" Fungus murmured. He started reaching a hand then stopped himself, wincing. Why? Why couldn't he accept what was so obviously in front of him? Randall was dead—gone. He'd seen it with his own eyes. What was so _hard_ about accepting concrete, visible facts for what they were?

He sighed almost silently, thinking back…the last time he'd seen Randall before tonight hadn't exactly left them on good terms, although not exactly on bad terms, either. It was just…how could it be _fair_, for them to never have the chance to make amends; for Randall to work those hundreds of hours on the Scream Extractor and then disappear inexplicably for over a year—returning with a new array of scars which bespoke countless horrors—and for what? To end up like _this_? To come to an end so ignominious and…and _meaningless_?

Dispirited, Fungus closed his eyes and shook his head. No; _THIS_—the pointlessness of Randall's death—was infinitely more illogical than Fungus' desire to believe he wasn't really dead.

A lump forming in his throat, he sniffled again and blinked away the mist in his eyes. It was now clear to him he wasn't just saying good-bye to an old co-worker, but to someone who'd become his friend.

"No matter what anyone says about what happened tonight," he whispered to the body, his words strangely clear, "you didn't deserve this."

As he spoke, Fungus stretched his hand toward Randall's head again, this time to finger an unfamiliar scar that crossed the lizard monster's forehead. He'd traced the gash's length about halfway when Randall suddenly grimaced, moaning. Fungus leaped back, nearly startled out of his skin.

"_Ohmygoodnessyou'realive!_" he gasped before clapping his hands over his mouth, trembling. He flicked his gaze about, waiting for Shirley to stalk out here to see what was going on, but she failed to come. Lowering his hands, Fungus looked back at Randall and approached him again. The lizard monster still remained motionless, and the sign of life had been so fleeting that Fungus was uncertain he'd actually _seen_ anything in the first place. Gulping, he pressed two fingers against Randall's neck to feel for a pulse, dreading that his sight might've been mistaken. But he felt one—faint but steady—fluttering through the artery. He sighed in relief, hope flaring anew as he withdrew his fingers—

"_C'mon, c'mon! Stupid thing…_"

Fungus stiffened, quirking an eyebrow. Cautiously, he moved around the cart to step inside the office and see what Shirley was up to. Peeking into the main office area, he saw her standing over the service window counter—not with the keys to lock up in hand, but with the taser gun she'd claimed was Randall's. She was trying to pry out the weapon's charge cartridge, whose indicator light glowed a dull, pulsating red. How strange…unloading the gun was fine and all, but why bother since its charge was too low to be dangerous—?

_SNAP!_ The cartridge had finally come loose and clattered onto the counter. Releasing a grunt, Shirley pulled out the aforementioned keys from a suit pocket and used one to open a drawer (which was always locked) right below the counter space in front of her. From inside she extracted _another_ charge cartridge, muttering, "This'll keep the little twerp quiet," as she snapped it into place. Immediately, its indicator light gleamed a steady green…

Fungus tore his gaze away, turning to an even paler shade of red than when he'd first seen Randall. _Oh no oh no oh no oh no oh NO!_ He was dead. SO dead. And if Shirley found out she hadn't quite "finished off" her original quarry, so was Randall. Wishing he'd been more heedful of his original suspicions about her, Fungus railed at his brain to think—and FAST!

The faint beginnings of an electrical whine struck his ear holes. "Blast, why can't these new cartridges charge faster?" Shirley hissed under her breath.

Okay—he had a few seconds. What could he possibly do with a few seconds?

…Except maybe catch her off-guard, since he was already supposed to be out in the hallway, waiting? Yes, it _could_ work—although chances were about fifty-fifty she'd either hide what she was doing or annihilate him on the spot, even if the gun wasn't ready. But time was just about up; right now, it was quite literally "do or die".

Saying a quick prayer, Fungus leaped into Shirley's line of sight. "Shirley, I need your assist—!"

She swept around, quickly hiding the weapon behind her back. "_F-Fungus!_" she stammered, cracking a nervous grin as she shoved the weapon into the drawer and shut it inside. "I-I wasn't…wait a minute—you're supposed to be waiting for me in the hall!"

"I know I know," he replied tremulously, another idea blossoming in his mind as his motor-mouth got started. "But the handlebar won't click out of place, which means the cart can't move, and if the cart can't move, I can't wheel it into the hallway which means I can't follow through with your orders which makes quite a mess of things—"

"STOP." She held out a hand palm-first. "Just. _Stop_." She then sighed loudly, starting toward him. "I'll get the stupid toolbox from the back room and see what I can do."

She pushed Fungus aside and in a few strides had vanished into the other room. Quickly, he cast a glance at the counter to see if…yes, she'd left the keys sitting on top, distracted as she was! _Superlative!_ Now there was no time to waste; snatching them up, Fungus rushed to the open back room door. He then stopped to fumble with the copious keys, hunting for the one which went with this door while simultaneously glancing to check for Shirley.

"Hey, Fungus!" Shirley called from within. "I can't find the toolbox anywhere!"

"O-oh, it's probably just under some stacked boxes in the far corner!" Fungus replied, sweat beading on his forehead. "I'm approximately ninety-eight point seven percent certain it's in there—_Huzzah!_" He held out the key and then, as carefully as his nerves would allow him, he shut the back room door. It was the sharp _click_ of his locking it from the outside which ultimately drew Shirley's attention.

"Wha…? Fungus? _Fungus…?_"

He ignored her baffled inquiries, bounding over to the drawer where she'd stowed away the taser. The drawer easily slid open since Shirley hadn't locked it, so Fungus took out the gun to power it down—and found that its cartridge had been jarred out of place, which saved him a lot of trouble.

"Fungus?! Fungus Oz, let me out of here _right now_!"

He looked down at the gun, momentarily uncertain if he should take it or leave it here locked away. He gritted his teeth in indecision, then on a whim he resolved to take it with him and exited the office, keys in tow.

"_Fungus?!_ FUNGUS! _OPEN UP, OR I'LL TWIST YOUR SORRY BIRD LEGS UNTIL THEY BEND THE RIGHT WAY!_"

He'd already laid the weapon on the cart next to Randall when Shirley began pounding on the door. Clicking the handlebar out of place, Fungus steered the cart down Laughfloor F's length toward the back way out, its wheels squealing as it peeled across the ground.

"…The things…you get me mixed up in…" he panted at the unconscious Randall.

Moments later, he disappeared through the back exit with his unusual load, Shirley's muffled, outraged shrieks still resounding behind him.

-------------------------

Warmth touched Randall's fronds and the back of his head as he awoke. The sensation had penetrated through a thick, vague haze of pain, and had abruptly roused him into consciousness. As his mind began to register the light filtering through his closed eyelids, he shut them tighter and groaned. Stirring, he started to pull the bedcovers tucked around his jaw over his head, but stopped in mid-motion. _Bedcovers…? And a…mattress?_

Randall opened his eyes a crack, trying to blink away the blurriness of his vision. He slowly propped himself up on the bed with his upper right arm, then brought a hand to his forehead.

"_Jalapeña_, my head…" he muttered, eyes squeezed shut again. When the twinge subsided to a dull ache, he opened them and looked about, this time having better luck taking in his surroundings. It was a modest bedroom, golden light spilling onto the bed through the horizontal slits of window blinds. The room's wallpaper was yellowing and pealed off in several places; its carpeting was a shaggy, pukey orange, and the weathered furniture obviously dated back to the '60s. A shadowbox display of categorized lint hanging on the wall was his final tip-off: this was Fungus' bedroom. As for exactly _how_ Randall had ended up here, he hadn't the faintest.

Try as he might, he could only draw a blank as to what'd happened in the last twenty-four hours. The last thing he remembered was a fruitless afternoon spent hunting for a meal in that snob-infested human city, Edgewood. He had a fuzzy recollection of being struck in the back, and then a flash of intense pain, but before that and the hunting…nothing. And worse was he had _no idea_ how he'd ended up back in the Monster World; in a way, it was infuriatingly anticlimactic.

Randall sighed and flopped onto his back, eyes fixed on the ceiling while he absently rubbed his forehead again. Perhaps _HE_ had taken care of everything despite their arranged appointment—the idea of which, since the process had somehow involved severe pain and memory loss, peeved Randall to no end. But if there was anyone who might have answers right now, it was (in a supreme turn of irony) Fungus.

Through immense willpower—how LONG it'd been since he'd laid in a _real_ bed!—Randall pulled the plaid covers off his body and slid onto the carpet, his movements slow and deliberate as though he hadn't used his limbs for a long time. He walked to the door and creaked it open, stepping into a short hallway to his right. It ended in a great room with a small, L-shaped kitchen area to his right and a round breakfast table in the living area to his left. More shaggy carpet (except for the rectangle of linoleum tiling in the kitchen) extended into this space, along with more '60s-era furnishings. A TV set stood atop the kitchen counter's far end, faced toward the table and turned on with its volume low…and poking his head into a kitchen cabinet on the floor was Fungus, mumbling incoherently to himself.

Leaning against the hallway's entry with his arms crossed, Randall pointedly cleared his throat. Startled, Fungus jerked upward and smacked his head against the top of the cabinet, then pulled out shakily to look Randall's way.

"R-Randall!" he exclaimed, eyes lit up with clear astonishment as he rose. "I-I hadn't expected you to be awake for several hours yet."

Randall shook his head curtly. "Forget about that," he said, narrowing his eyes and stepping inside the great room. "Something screwy's going on and I'm not gonna sit down to chat 'til I get some ans…" He trailed off as his gaze rested on an umbrella stand huddled next to a dresser in the living area. Stowed inside with the umbrellas was a bulky gun, the sight of which nagged at Randall's brain with familiarity. _Where have I…?_

Then, his breath catching, everything rushed back to him—the middle school, the human girl, the moving truck, the door, the factory, the woman…

The _woman_!

"That…that MANIAC in the dispatch office!" Randall spat vehemently, his weakness forgotten for the moment. "She tried to kill me with that taser gun—!"

"I know, I know," Fungus interrupted, approaching the lizard monster. "Sh-Shirley tried to kill _both_ of us, and we quite narrowly escaped with our lives…y-you more narrowly than myself."

Bowing his head and sighing irritably to mask a dizzy spell, Randall rubbed his forehead. "And I suppose nowadays you make a habit of befriending deranged killers, huh Fungus?"

"Oh, goodness _no_!" he responded emphatically. "I-I had no idea Shirley possessed such violent tendencies—at least not to the extent that she'd actually murder in cold blood." Fungus tutted to himself, becoming reflective. "What baffles _me_ is how Mr. Sullivan would've ever allowed someone as unbalanced as her to replace Roz'—"

"Whoa, hold up!" Randall raised a questioning eye ridge, a part of him suspecting that the "Mr." moniker implied something new about a certain _someone_. "'_Mr._ Sullivan'?"

Fungus looked up at him. "You haven't heard already?" he asked, his voice colored with surprise before immediately descending into meekness. "Well, far be it for me to identify what you know; but—a-as it so turns out—our very own James P. Sullivan has recently acquired the position of CEO at Monsters, Inc."

Randall stopped breathing, nausea swirling under his heart. "…_What?_"

"Well, you know…the former Scarer, the one who's friends with Mike Wazowski, the one who took the kid and destroyed the Scream Extractor, the—"  
"I KNOW who you're talking about!" Randall snapped. His momentary tenseness grew shaky, and nausea twisted his diaphragm anew. "But…but that's _impossible_. Waternoose—"

"Has been incarcerated for over a year," Fungus informed. "His trial's coming up this summer."

The lizard monster snorted. Well, there'd never been any love lost between himself and Waternoose, so he wasn't exactly "cut up" over hearing what'd happened to the old money monger. But any satisfaction that thought might've offered was overshadowed by another, GLARINGLY far-fetched bit of news that just did _not_ compute.

"Okay, so Mr. High-and-Mighty is a jailbird now," Randall said. "But just how the heck did somebody like _Sullivan_ take the helm of a huge, multi-branch power conglomerate?"

Fungus scratched his head. "Well, I-I recall the exact reasons being rather complicated. From what I've gathered, however, it seems most people agree the _largest_ factor which played in Mr. Sullivan's ascent to the office was his introduction of laugh power."

"'_Laugh_ power'?" he echoed. His tone was equal parts incredulous and skeptical.

"Why, yes," Fungus answered. "A-around the same time Waternoose was arrested, Mr. Sullivan discovered that laughs are ten times more powerful than screams. Once the switch was made to laugh production, the company immediately shot out of the red. He'd helped salvage Monsters, Inc., Randall—almost single-handedly!"

As he listened to this, Randall's face gradually fell, then suddenly tightened as a familiar, hot bitterness sparked at the pit of his stomach. _Lucky, LUCKY Sullivan! How is it that he ALWAYS manages to come out all roses? It's worse than unfair—it's CRIMINAL!_

"I don't believe this…" he muttered indignantly. "That Throw Rug in charge of the company; how much lower could the Board of Directors _go_?!"

Fungus blinked in utter perplexity. "But I-I don't understand," he began. "Mr. Sullivan may have thwarted the Scream Extractor, but I've never found the least bit reason to dislike him—"

Swiftly, he leaned into Fungus' face. "Well maybe you'd understand why the feeling's not mutual when _you've_ been tossed by 'Mr. Sullivan' into the Human World like _so much garbage_!"

Randall stood back, faintly panting, his green eyes still burning with deep, hurt-tinged loathing. The red monster only gaped at him, rendered speechless by disbelief, then looked away as the realization finally seemed to sink in.

"Oh my…" Fungus murmured, shaking his head. "You…you mean he just…_banished_ you? W-without so much as a word?"

"Not much to me, at least," Randall spoke bitterly. "Wazowski talked it up a lot with him, BOY he did! But apparently, neither of those two thought I had anything to add to their little discussion about my 'punishment'. And it wasn't even much of a discussion at that." His voice suddenly became high-pitched and nasally: "'Hey Sulley! Let's chuck Lizard Boy through a door an' see how _he_ likes it!'" Then in a much lower tone: "'Oh, okay!'" Randall exhaled exhaustingly, burying his face in his upper hands as he shook his head.

"You mean he _and_ Mike…?"

"Yes," came Randall's muffled reply.

Fungus continued to stare a moment, not seeming quite sure how he should react to this revelation. Uncomfortably, he shuffled his feet. "Well…I-I guess that explains a great deal, not the least of which being your lengthy and unexplained absence." He paused, as though something had just occurred to him. "Wait…i-if you've been in the Human World all this time, then why was Shirley after you?"

Lifting his head, Randall averted his eyes, the well-known and familiar feeling of having been backstabbed re-igniting as he remembered _HER_. He may have just revealed something of similar personal hurt to Fungus, but when it came to explaining _HER_…it was just one thing he wasn't quite ready to disclose.

"I don't wanna talk about it right now," he replied flatly.

"B-but Randall," Fungus persisted, moving in front of him, "she was willing to take both of us down without scruples. Don't you think it's imperative to—?"

"_I can't tell you anything, okay?!_"

Fungus drew back, so stunned he didn't even tremble. As Randall watched him, breathing heavily from the intensity and emotion behind his outburst, his mood began to temper. For the first time since he'd gotten Fungus involved with working on the Scream Extractor, Randall had actually, TRULY scared the little guy out of his wits. Even when they'd worked on the Scarefloor together, Fungus had known Randall wasn't one to follow through with his more extravagant threats (e.g. personally putting him through the door shredder). He'd understood it was just Randall's nature, to have a short fuse when it came to inept monsters, just as Randall understood it was Fungus' nature to _be_ an inept, rambling brainiac. But _this_…this whole thing with Shirley had been a matter of life and death, and he could tell now that Fungus was still deeply shaken by that experience. He was just worried about Randall, and being the center of someone else's concern wasn't exactly something Randall was used to, much less something he knew how to properly react to.

Sighing, Randall looked away and ran a hand through his fronds. He then turned back toward Fungus with a softened gaze. "Hey, Fungus," he spoke up, his voice quiet. "You were…saying something about this Shirley gal going after you, too. What exactly happened while I was out?"

His mood brightening, Fungus immediately started into a rather elaborate explanation of what'd occurred—his suspicions about Shirley, his thinking Randall was dead, his narrow escape from her intended plans for him. He'd even included the reason why he'd taken Randall to his duplex apartment instead of the E.R.: it had something to do with the latest taser technology, and the fact that whoever was shot by its ammo and initially survived either would or wouldn't recover, so there was nothing doctors could do to help. Randall had meanwhile listened, letting the red monster ramble to his heart's content, and found himself quite impressed with Fungus' unprecedented resourcefulness. But once he realized just WHY the little jarhead had acted somewhat out of character, he couldn't help but be touched, too. Fungus could've just run away while Shirley was distracted with the gun, but instead he'd decided to lay everything on the line to save both himself _and_ Randall. There'd only been a precious few times in Randall's life when someone had gone out on a limb for him, and it was something that—in Randall's book—merited some recognition.

"…but that's the problem with hatchback vehicles these days," Fungus was saying. "They never seem to take into account the possibility of their drivers bringing an unconscious passenger almost twelve feet in length—"

Randall clapped a hand over Fungus' mouth, just to stop him and get his attention. "You probably saved my life back there," he said earnestly, removing his hand and placing it on Fungus' shoulder. "I owe you one."

Fungus cracked a lopsided grin, scratching the back of his head. "A-aww, well…I-I know you would've done the same for me."

A fleeting, sad smile played on Randall's lips. It was a nice sentiment—a naïve one on Fungus' part, but still nice nonetheless.

"…Quick question," Randall said, his gaze having wandered back to the taser gun. "I dunno about you, but isn't storing that gun in an umbrella stand kinda, well…_conspicuous_?"

Fungus' cheeks turned an even deeper shade of red. "A-actually, that _had_ occurred to me, except…" He gritted his teeth in obvious embarrassment. "Well, I kinda ran out of room."

Randall scanned the room, and soon understood what Fungus meant: all the various drawers and cabinets were practically bursting with papers he'd absently stuffed inside, and one partially open closet was overflowing with junk. Even the kitchen cabinetry suffered from excess storage, so that the umbrella stand truly WAS the only place left to stash away the gun. The lizard monster couldn't help shaking his head; Fungus may've possessed a larger I.Q. than even Randall himself, but he was also dreadfully disorganized and a hopeless "pack rat".

"Hunh…well, unless ya have some sorta 'system' going on here, you wouldn't mind if I clear off a seat for myself at the table, would ya?"

"O-of course not," Fungus answered. "Be my guest."

Randall strode to the breakfast table and took a seat, his tail sticking through the hole in the chair's backrest while his hind feet sat tucked up on the seat and his fore feet dangled over the seat's edge. Not the most comfortable position, but it worked. He then propped up his upper elbows on the table so he could rest his jaw on those hands, his lower arms folded loosely across his underbelly as he leaned forward.

"I could get you something to drink, if you'd like," Fungus said.

Randall's expression perked up hopefully. "You have any coffee?"

"Hmm…all I've got is decaf."

Randall made a face. "_Ugh_…never mind," he said, waving a dismissive hand. "Some orange slime'll have to do."

"Coming right up." Within a few moments, Fungus had brought him a tall glass of orange slime, for which Randall thanked him. As he started gulping it down, however, any hopes he had for eating his first decent meal in over a year were nearly dashed; the nutritious orange slime had hit his battered stomach like a warhead, and he wasn't sure he could keep it all down for very long. Randall stopped a moment, then continued by taking more judicious sips at his drink. His stomach made no further protests, so he allowed himself to relax and begin to truly, _sincerely_ relish his return to civilization. Sitting in a room, at a table, drinking some slime…just like any normal monster.

These pleasant thoughts pervading his mind, Randall let his gaze rest upon the TV. The four o' clock news was on, and one of the program's "roving reporters" was doing a special interest story which didn't particularly interest Randall, since he didn't consider that stuff real news. He only half-listened to the program until a fragment of something the anchormonster was saying grabbed his attention:

_"…and after several hours of working under strict confidentiality, the CDA has finally released information on what could possibly be Monsters, Incorporated's second major scandal in two years…"_

Randall blinked, holding his glass in midair as he stared more intently at the television screen. "Could ya turn up the sound for me, Fungus?"

"Sure." Fungus took the remote and raised the volume, then sat at the table to watch the broadcast, too:

_"…In a press conference which ended only minutes ago, the CDA has confirmed that it is, at this time, conducting an investigation in the general metropolitan area. According to the agency, its first lead was received around nine o' clock last night, when an employee at the major production facility—whose name has not yet been released—filed a still classified report while working at the factory. The largest power company in Monstropolis and the most influential of its kind in the nation, Monsters, Incorporated has received exceptional publicity in the past two years, the most notorious of which is the facility's now-infamous claim to having been responsible for the first security breach in monster history. With this in mind, many sources have speculated that the employee's report may very well implicate a possible REPEAT of the November, 2001 incident."_

Randall swallowed heavily upon hearing the last bit. _Could she…?_ No, of course not! He was already sure he _himself_ had been the cause for all this alarm, and the fact that he'd dragged in tons of spores from the Human World probably didn't help matters much at the factory. Besides, this was only speculation, brought up by the news program merely because of the sensationalist effect such information was likely to have on the public.

The anchormonster continued:

_"In response to this guesswork, the CDA has also released an official statement, part of which reads as follows:_

_'We can neither confirm nor deny the presence of a human in the Monster World.'_

_Some analysts have been quick to point out that this statement has a striking resemblance—if not near identicalness—to the one issued during the first child crisis. Also of note, says analysts, is the use of the term 'human' instead of the more specific 'child'. This, along with the rumored use of modified child scanners which allow for adjustments according to age, suggests not only a security breach, but one which involves a human intruder of adolescent or even perhaps adult age."_

Randall's mouth went dry, his jaw slackening. _No_…everything just fit too well, speculation though it was. And he HAD heard rumors about those child scanners three years ago from a rather reliable source—the CDA-paranoid Mr. Waternoose himself.

The lizard monster listened on with bated breath:

_"The CDA has so far refused to confirm anything related to its investigation, except for its promise to do 'thorough and expedient' work and to place its initial focus upon Monsters, Incorporated. The agency has, however, issued a warning to the public: the 'Human Alert System', established in early 2002 in light of the first security breach, has been elevated from a low alert 'Code Green' to a high alert 'Code Orange'. In regards to the current situation at Monsters, Incorporated, company CEO James P. Sullivan was not available for comment._

_"And now for an overview of today's sports with—"_

Randall shut it off, having taken the remote which Fungus had laid on the table. He simply stared straight ahead, his expression blank, an empty, cold feeling welling in his chest.

"Wow…" Fungus said, clearly astonished. "Well, just makes me all the more glad I couldn't come to work today, I-I must say. Boy, how my latex allergy acted up when those agents infested the factory the last—!" He stopped, noticing Randall's peculiar mood. "Randall…a-are you feeling all right?" he asked.

He glanced at Fungus. "Wha…? Yeah, I'm fine," he muttered.

"Because if you want, I _could_ whip up another glass of orange slime, since it does wonders for perking people—"

"I said I'm FINE, Fungus," Randall enunciated, becoming testy. He tried to sigh away his irritation before continuing. "Look, I…I just need to use your bathroom." Without another word, he slid out of the chair and stalked toward the short hallway.

"Ah…o-okay," Fungus replied, adjusting his specs in bafflement as he watched him leave.

Seconds later, Randall was inside the bathroom with the door shut and locked behind him. Turning on the sink's tap, he splashed water onto his face and fronds, wiping at his skin with brisk, angry motions. _The stupid kid!_ he thought hotly. _She just had to follow me through the door, didn't she? What was so HARD about understanding that she needed to mind her own business? Was she THAT dense?! THAT…desperate?_

He stared at the sink, his upper hands gripping its rim as water dripped off his face. He suddenly shook his head. _It makes no difference_, he convinced himself. _She's done this to herself, and it's not my place to rescue some human kid because of a poor judgment call on HER part. Too bad for her; I gave her a fair warning and she snubbed it. As far as I'm concerned, it's not my problem…_

A voice in the back of his head chimed in: _But that's not enough to stop you from helping her, is it?_

Randall straightened slightly, stricken by the thought's truthfulness. Devon…that was her name, wasn't it? A puny, scrawny, graceless little human kid with glasses; that was all she was, nothing more. Yet after only spending a few minutes with her, he couldn't get the girl out of his mind. This was ridiculous—she was just a kid! Why in Monstropolis did it _matter_ so much to him what happened to her? Why did he even _care_? Why? _Why_? WHY?!

_Yeah…why?_

Shutting his eyes, Randall turned off the tap and groped for the small towel hanging beside the sink. He wiped away the excess water from his skin, then, lowering the towel, he looked up. His reflection gazed back at him from the bathroom mirror, and it gave him pause. One of the rare times he'd seen himself since being thrown into the Human World was last night, in that school restroom. He'd been walking around, exploring and inspecting the room, when he caught sight of his reflection in a mirror. It was one of those wall-mounted metallic sheets which served as a substitute for regular glass mirrors, and its reflection wasn't all that clear. But it was enough for Randall to be reminded of how much he'd changed over the months, to see how truly thrashed and sickly he looked. Seeing that scar on his head—fingering it, realizing how _hideous_ it was—had sent him over the edge, beyond fury and beyond grief, so all he could do was run from the mirror with a strangled cry and curl up in a restroom stall, his body shuddering with each breath. It was just another "weak" moment—in this case something Randall hadn't done since he was a child—but it might've gone on a while longer if Devon hadn't decided to wander down the school hallway right then.

In a way, though, he'd thought the timing was perfect: instead of wallowing in his own self-pity, he could take out the fierceness of his emotion on Devon and, simultaneously, send her away before his door arrived. But his plan didn't quite work out, since she had been—of all things—curious, which in turn had made _him_ curious. She might've been a little scared of him, yes, but that hadn't stopped her from treating Randall like…well, a _person_. But it was more than just refreshing for him, to have an actual, intelligent conversation with someone else; he'd felt comfortable around Devon, and had—for a few wonderful seconds—completely forgotten about his troubles and profound loneliness, and even about the three monsters who'd ruined his life. Not for a long, long time had ANYONE managed to have such an effect upon him.

If for nothing else—even if not for standing up for him in front of her father—_he owed her one _for those few seconds.

Gently, Randall ran his fingers over the dark sliver on his forehead, watching himself in the mirror as he did so. _She didn't care if I looked like this. So then why should I care if she IS just a human kid?_

He already knew the answer to that: he shouldn't. Plain and simple; he shouldn't.

Grimacing in determination, Randall balled the towel and dumped it into the sink, then briskly made his way toward the great room. Fungus, who now sat at the table with a newspaper, looked up as he reentered.

"Ah, good, you're back!" he said cheerfully. "I've just been perusing the paper to find out more about that _awful_ condiment shortage, and—h-hey, what're you _doing_?" Fungus scrambled out of his seat as Randall bypassed him, the lizard monster heading for the door.

"I'm leaving," Randall said curtly. "There's something I need to take care of."

"But you _can't_! You're simply in no condition—"

"I don't have time to worry about that. If I don't get to her before they do—"

"WAIT!" Fungus intercepted Randall, forcing him to stop. "'Her'? '_They_'? What in Monstropolis are you talking about?!"

Randall sighed, half-rolling his eyes. "Okay, look; I know about the kid the CDA's looking for."

Fungus' eyes widened. "Y-you mean there really _is_ a human?"

"Yeah, there is. And I'm not about to see her get caught by those creeps." He tried to press past Fungus, but the little monster stood in his way again.

"But h-how did you find out about this?"

"Fungus, _please_…"

"Just a moment of your time, Randall," he persisted. "I-it'd be nice to know just _why_ you're running off into certain danger, after all."

Noting Fungus' earnest concern, Randall yielded. "Okay—when you saw me in the dispatch office last night, I'd just returned from the Human World through a factory door. And right before _that_, I came across this kid who was pretty curious about me." He paused. "Devon—the kid, I mean—I'm thinking she followed me through the door, too."

"Oh, gracious…" Fungus murmured. "That _does_ sound bad."

"Which is why I'm going after her," he replied firmly. "I've seen what the CDA's done to a pitiful little sock, so I'm not exactly eager to find out how they'd react to an actual human."

"But Randall, e-everyone _knows_ now that children aren't toxic."

"Maybe, but Devon's no little bedwetting five year-old. And because that stupid news report has already made that clear, monsters are now gonna be running scared and screaming for the 'wild human' to be exterminated, like she'll devour their kids or something. Besides, the CDA has a bad tendency to follow a 'shoot now, ask questions later' policy." He gave Fungus a questioning look. "Unless that's changed since I've been gone…?"

Fungus sighed. "I fear not."

"Figures," Randall muttered. He then shook his head, starting forward. "I've gotta get out there—"

"Not without due planning, you won't!" Fungus protested.

"Don't you get it? She's in danger _now_!" He exhaled impatiently, averting his eyes for an instant. "I _owe her_, Fungus. She helped me out of a tough spot, and maybe you don't understand it, but the LAST thing I want is to see her get vaporized by a buncha control freaks in yellow suits!"

"But what good will it do her if you fatigue, or get arrested, or _worse_?" Fungus' eyes bore into him pleadingly. "Th-there are simply too many factors to take into account, if you were to barrel onto the streets right now."

The reality of Fungus' words weren't easy to swallow, and it internally stung Randall to acknowledge—at least to himself—that the little jarhead was right. For the past seventeen months, Randall had lived and survived by planning things as he went along, more often guided by instinct than thought. But this was civilization, and as he'd failed to realize until this very moment, the rules had changed: he couldn't mount a rescue mission on the fly, couldn't risk that his weakened body might betray him, and couldn't risk a dozen other possibilities he'd rather not think about. Besides, the onset of dusk in a couple hours wouldn't bode well for him, since Monstropolis policemonsters were notoriously suspicious of lone lizard monsters like himself "wandering" the streets at night.

Randall sighed heavily.__

"Fine. You win," he replied in a quiet, sullen voice. He trudged to the table—seething with gut-twisting frustration at the limitations of his body, frustration at the overall circumstances—and positioned himself into a chair again, his eyes downcast as he leaned on the tabletop. "But what am I supposed to do?" he asked at length.

Fungus came to his side. "For starters, I-I could help you search for her," he offered.

Randall looked at him, aggravation ebbing. "You'd do that?"

"Of course. I-in any case, it's probably best that I don't return to work for awhile. Shirley may still think you're dead, but…well…I can't say the same for myself."

Randall raised an eye ridge. "You _do_ realize what I'm about to get myself into is probably just as hairy as anything involving a gun-touting ogress," he pointed out.

"No less so than the Scream Extractor, I would think."

Regarding him a moment, Randall allowed a small, grateful smile. "All right, Fungus. You're in." His expression suddenly became no-nonsense. "…Although I'll warn you ahead of time I'm not gonna have a lotta patience with you, considering what's at stake."

"Oh, that's quite all right," Fungus answered dismissively. "We used to work together all the time, remember?"

Randall was tempted to answer by saying, "Yeah—and at least I got PAID to put up with you then," but instead nodded, wanting to get to the matter at hand.

"The question is," he wondered aloud, "where the heck do we start _looking_ for the kid?"

Squinting upward, Fungus grimaced in deep thought. "Well, I-I _could_ map out a search radius based upon the probable distance of the human's travel thus far. Let's see…must take into account the time duration since entry, location of entry—the factory, of course—a-and then her weight…"

Randall had simply tuned him out, since there was almost no point in stopping Fungus while engrossed in his own train of thought. He instead concentrated upon coming up with his own ideas, drumming his fingers on the tabletop while letting his eyes wander about the room. Presently, he glanced at the abandoned newspaper across from him and started to move on…then flicked his gaze back to one of the open pages. Narrowing his eyes, he reached over and pulled the paper to himself, flipping it right side up to skim the full-page advertisement's text. After a moment, his eyes widened.

"Hey, Fungus…" He turned his head and saw Fungus still muttering to himself (something about "the Pythagorean Theorem"). With a sharp whistle, Randall immediately snared his attention. "Take a look at this," he said, motioning for him to come.

Fungus obliged, adjusting his specs as he peered over Randall's upper left shoulder.

"Ah, the Association!" he commented after reading the ad over. "Interesting movement they're involved in, I must say—only started becoming prominent when Mr. Sullivan became CEO." He eyed Randall, as if something had just dawned on him. "Y-you're not thinking…?"

"I know it's a long shot," Randall began, "but from what I've gathered, Devon seems to be a pretty bright kid. I wouldn't be surprised if she's somehow found her way to these guys already." He tapped the ad in indication, meanwhile trying to temper his quickly escalating hope with more realistic expectations. "In any case, at least it's a start."

Fungus snapped his fingers. "And I know who to contact first!" he said triumphantly. "I-I know some Association members, so I can call around to find out what's going on."

"For right now, just get out their phone numbers," Randall instructed, sliding out of the chair. "I wanna make sure you're asking the right questions when you call, and _not_ raising anyone's suspicions."

"W-where're you going?" Fungus queried, watching Randall head toward the hallway.

"Since it doesn't look like we're going anywhere right away, I might as well do something I've been looking forward to for a long time: taking a shower." He looked over his shoulder, something familiar and almost-forgotten wedging back into his soul. "Oh, and Fungus—don't make any comments about that, or I'll be forced to throw you into the trash compactor." He flashed that trademark, mischievous grin which once came so easily to him, then continued into the hallway.

Fungus blinked, adjusting his glasses as a bemused half-smile perked the corners of his mouth.

"Well, I-I guess what they say is true, after all," he thought aloud. "'The more things change, the more they stay the same'!"

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Not much to say here, except that the next chapter should prove to be a MAJOR turning point in the story. "How?" you may ask. All I can say for now is: "Stay tuned…"


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